


Becoming

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Closeted Character, During Canon, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Rescue Missions, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-02-14 00:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12995847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: Season 1: A Long Road Ahead adaptation.John Hancock and Paladin Danse have a complicated history.





	1. To Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to Fangirlanonymous.
> 
> Theme for Becoming: [Radioactive - Pentatonix & Lindsey Stirling](https://youtu.be/eh-72yBP7sw/)

DANSE

Alexandria, VA

September 19th, 2277

The region pulsed with triumph. Adam’s Air Force Base was easily distinguishable from a distance by towering columns of smoke, fading from black to white, marketing the locations of bloody standoffs or the burning of enemy bodies. The wreckage of the Enclave’s mobile crawler still glowed and smoldered, the faint flickers of embers clinging to life. In the oppressive darkness that starless nights brought, the damage was scarcely perceptible. Only the renewed destruction of city streets gave any indication that the last few days in the Capital had been anything but usual.

His rank was Paladin now. _Paladin_. He could barely believe it. The title still sounded peculiar to his ears. His promotion had come from nowhere, during a hail of gunfire and explosions led by a newly-minted knight from one of the local vaults. Danse was young and the advancement had caused him to bypass several ranks. Surely, there must be have been others better suited for this role than him. But Brotherhood casualties had been vast. The loss of Liberty Prime had leveled the playing field, pitting infantries against one another. Had the Enclave vertibirds been outfitted with artillery, the battle would have been brief, the outcome quite different. 

Amid the salvo of Adams Air Force Base, Brotherhood forces had been splintered and thinned. Danse’s squad had come under attack by Hellfire Troopers, leaving him as the only survivor. Finding himself in a fallback position teeming with field scribes and initiates, their commanding officers lost, Danse had grabbed the nearest paladin he could find, barking to him amidst the chaos, “ _Who’s in charge here_?”

“ _Nobody. We’ve taken heavy casualties._ _What’s your rank_?” the officer had yelled over the roar of vertibird takeoff. Additional Enclave soldiers would be advancing at that very moment.

“ _Knight-Sergeant_ ,” Danse had answered.

“ _It’s Paladin now, solider. Assemble a team and take point_.”

And that had been that. He had imagined his eventual promotion to be grandiose, born of service, not necessity. There was meant to be a ceremony in the courtyard of the Citadel, praise pouring from Elder Lyons’ mouth while his brothers-in-arms cheered and saluted. Nevertheless, duty before glory. Immediately, he had turned and stridden straight back into the salvo, flanked by servicemen and women who hadn’t lived to see nightfall.

Witnessing the air strike missiles rain down on the Enclave’s base had been an almost transcendental experience for Danse, and for any Brotherhood member left standing to see. He had slumped in his armor, watching that fiery white blast expand across the runway. A single explosion had signified the end of a long campaign and the promise of a future that would be remarkedly simpler.

Still, the ever-pervasive reminder of death clung to the survivors. The Citadel housed too many empty beds and vacant armor stations. Hastily-erected medic tents in the courtyard bore the screams of the wounded. So, the seniormost officers had sent their charges away, keeping only a bare-boned staff at the stronghold. A fleet of scribes were kept busy at the Memorial, but grunts like Danse had been let loose on a two-week leave.

He suspected it was a ploy set forth by the proctors and sentinels to keep the other soldiers out from underfoot. The process of cleaning up the mess they had left for the Wasteland would be daunting, and a sore way to repay those who had served in battle. But a few bottles of water or a handful of caps tossed at the local populace would get the job done easily enough. In a matter of days, the Capital would look no worse for wear. What were a few more bombed out buildings in the grander scheme of things?

Newly flushed with victory, his brothers and sisters had insisted he join them on the mandatory furlough. He could always count on the youngest members to know where the nearest watering hole was – they were consistent in that regard.Such ventures into social settings often left him reeling, edgy and unsure of how to carry himself. It was preferable to spend his leaves training in the courtyard or working on his armaments. Still, it was his duty to set the tone for his subordinates. He would accompany his men, be present for them. He could do that, had been commanded to.

Traveling through the metro system that strung the region together, their group encountered little more than a few repellant ghouls, stupid, slow and unaware of the battle that had raged above ground. Exiting the tunnels brought a waft of fresh air, refreshing after the stale smell of the subterranean. His company had selected a sizeable dive bar, hazy blue light spilling out of the doorway each time it opened.

Danse held the steel door open for his underlings, an officer and a gentleman. As his crew ambled past, he scanned the interior on reflex. Being one of the few establishments in the area left standing, the bar was crawling with soldiers, a sea of orange, olive and tattered earth tones. The entire bar was bathed in soft blue tones, azure neon lights and bulbs covered in thin plastic gels. Radio tunes contended with the sound of shouting soldiers to create a lively din.   

 A thin man sat alone at the seat furthest from the door, sorely out of place among the prime physiques and errant boisterousness of the Brotherhood patrons. For an instant, their eyes met and held. He had a predator’s eyes, examining Danse head to toe. Frowning, Danse looked away, leaving the doorway to step inside. The door made a solid thud as it closed behind him.

Leaving his men to their mirth, Danse sidestepped around them and shouldered his way towards the barkeep. He ordered for himself, not wasting his time with beer. He had no fear of alcohol. This could be one less day to remember. He downed one glass of whiskey before signaling for another. The second glass was polished off faster than the first. Indistinct voices prattled on, the press of conversation, of cheers and laugher falling thickly on Danse’s ears. It was crowded, and he had to wait his turn to order a third round. He exhaled, leaning his elbows on the gummy bartop as he waited.

The newly broken skin around his eye burned slightly, itching. His raised a fingertip to lightly trace the stiff stiches holding his face together. A negligible discomfort. Garbed in civilian attire, Danse’s hand dropped to tug at the collar of his shirt. Too tight on his brawny form, the fabric stretched taut to accommodate his broad shoulders and pinched at his biceps. He hoped that the end of the fighting would bring new supplies, as his faction was in dire need.

The battle had been a difficult one, and not without vast casualties. A broken visor in his helmet, shattering into his face to slice at his eye, was barely worth mentioning in light of much graver fates. His entire squadron had been killed by Enclave troopers, their deaths replaying on a constant loop in his memories. Even his former drill sergeant had perished. Cutler’s regiment had been slaughtered months ago. Everyone he shared comradery with or cared for had died. No one knew Danse anymore; he was a stranger among his Brothers, an outsider. He was uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with the shirt. _Why me?_ was the question that no one could answer. Why had Danse alone survived the battle? _Survivor’s guilt_ , the medics had diagnosed. Those two words didn’t seem complex enough to properly encompass what he was feeling.

The skin on his neck prickled, prying him from his thoughts. He took stock, quietly, coolly. The man at the high-top was staring again. At second glance, the man was handsome. Striking, even. Smaller in build than Danse, he had long, wavy blonde hair that curled at the tips and a pleasing heart-shaped face with high cheek bones.

Something jerked hard in his belly. The scrutiny made him anxious, and he was struck with a sudden urge to either leave or punch the man in the face. The latter thought was likely to be the whiskey talking. Danse wasn’t a violent man, and his lack of mental composure gave him cause for concern.

He was considering cutting himself off from the influence of additional alcohol when a tumbler of vodka was pressed into his hand by a frumpy waitress in a stained apron. Danse frowned. “I didn’t order this.”

The waitress jerked her chin towards the other side the room. Danse followed her line of sight. That blonde man in the far seat tilted the neck of his bottle in Danse’s direction, the ghost of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. The man refused to look away.

Danse ripped his gaze from him, fingers curling around the glass of vodka, paralyzed by indecision.

Images of Cutler floated in and out of his memories, the recollections of stolen moments and hurried intimacy. He hardly ever thought of his former partner by his given name – Mike. They had both been introverted, private individuals, and had taken to each other long before learning to salute in the Brotherhood. Both had tried to kill the cravings, the closeness they had shared in Rivet City. The yearning had been too deep and, despite clear indications within the Brotherhood’s Codex against anything deemed _unnatural_ , their conduct had continued against regulations. So, they had hidden, existing in a too-aware state that left both of their nerves shot.

When Cutler had died, Danse had felt a moment of guilty relief. The fear of discovery was gone. His life was his own now, and he could bury his shame in hard work. And yet…that craving hadn’t dissipated. Now, this stranger was enticing him, tempting him to fall back into dirty habits.

Only Cutler. Only ever Cutler. The idea of replacing the memory of his partner with someone else…

He was getting too far ahead of himself. Perhaps he was entirely mistaken, misreading intent and making a dangerous assumption.

Sighing, he stood straight. It only took a few steps to cross the space between them. Stretched to his full height, he stared formidably down at the man, who peered back up at him, unfazed. It was too dark to make out the shade of his eyes. That faint smile still lingered, taunting, tantalizing.

“How you wanna play this, chief?” he asked Danse in a rough whisper.

No. Danse was _not_ mistaken. Heat rose to his cheeks.

“I’m leaving the Capital in the morning,” the man confided. He took of swig of his drink, draining it. “Figured I might as well do something stupid.”

Perfect. Danse couldn’t design a better scenario.  “Understood,” he said. “I agree.”

Careful not to look away this time, Danse tossed his drink back in one gulp, placing the glass upside down on the man’s table. He stepped away, smoothly edging towards a back exit. Danse cracked the door, pausing in the entryway, almost imperceptivity tilting his head towards the exit.

The man drummed his bottle with his fingers, hesitating as if second-guessing his decision. That precious instant seemed to stretch, and Danse felt the stirrings of panic in his gut. One wrong move, a shouted word, and it might be his brothers dragging him out back, their energetic elation turned to violent disgust in a moment, taking turns with hardened fists and regulation boots until Danse’s insult to the Codex was extinguished.

Fear getting the better of him, Danse had begun to plot an exit strategy from his situation when, at last, the man slid out of his seat. They stepped outside, alone in the stillness of night. The sounds of merriment and clattering glasses echoed dully from inside. An exit sign blinked overhead, giving sound advice in neon. Too much moonlight spilled around them as they both stared at the other. Danse’s ears strained, expecting to hear the creaky sound of the back door opening or encroaching bootsteps.

“So, uh, what now?” the man queried, his own uncertainty written on his face.

“You take charge,” Danse instructed. Simultaneously excited and sickened, Danse swallowed a lump in his throat that might have been pride. “Take what you want from me. I’ll allow it.”

The man looked aside briefly, his mind clearly at work. When he glanced back, he wore a dangerous smile that made him look even more alluring.

Danse’s few words of consent seemed to have charged them both. The two of them struck, all hands and heat, without a barrier of modesty. Danse allowed himself to be backed against the establishment wall, cool concrete meeting his skin, as they both grappled for the waistband of the other. Blood rushing to throb in his extremities and cloud his brain, Danse mumbled, “You didn’t ask my name.”

“I know,” the man hissed through his teeth.

Danse grabbed him by the arm, tugging him out of the light and around a corner. They resumed in the safety of darkness, all heavy breathing and knocking teeth. Both fumbled to unto their pants, exposing just enough flesh to air.

One final decent into sin. He was blemishing Cutler’s memory and dishonoring himself, sullying the title he didn’t deserve, burying his longing under a fresh layer of filth. This was as close to suicide as Danse’s honor could permit, destroying himself while still living to serve the Brotherhood. He’d die of this, his soul crumbling. A shell of himself could continue to serve, wanting nothing else, no desires or doubts, just blind obedience. He was overwhelmed by the desire to feel something – anything other than disappointment and loss – be it pain, pleasure, or punishment.

The man took him by the shoulders and turned him to face the wall, running a hand down Danse’s spine, fingertips catching briefly in the fabric of his shirt. “Put your hands on the wall,” was the command.

Good. Orders. The man seemed to be catching on to what he needed. His chest pushed against Danse’s back, urging them both forward. The man was entirely too demonstrative, placing one hand over Danse’s, which was splayed out on the wall. Danse pulled out from under it and placed it elsewhere, bracing his weight. “Just do it,” he growled, arching his back and setting humiliation aside. “This isn’t about me. Or you.”

“Flatterer,” said the man, his voice right behind Danse’s ear, a hand taking hold of his hip.

When the thrusting began, Danse’s elbows locked, keeping his upper body immobile. It hurt and that was fine. Fitting, even. He deserved nothing less.


	2. The One with the Exposition

PIPER

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 22nd, 2287

“Hi! I’m Piper Wright, Diamond City Press. I’m with Publick Occurrences. Can I ask a few questions?”

“Hi. Piper Wright. I’m a reporter. Can I –”

“Hi, there. Piper Wright. I’d like to –”

“Hello. I’m Piper. May I –”

“Hey. I was wondering –”

“Well, fuck you, too, buddy.”

Another Monday morning in Sanctuary Hills. Piper’s day had been filled with failed attempts to pry commentary from the populace. If the structures still had doors, they would have been slamming in her face.

This was an oddly peaceful time in Piper’s life, and, if she ventured to guess, everyone else’s. It had been fortune that had led each person here. Well, fortune and a certain someone in a blue-and-gold jumpsuit. Blue had such presence and charisma that it was hard not to follow him. She supposed that they all ought to be glad he was a level-headed soldier and not a heretic. Promises and secret hopes held them hostage, each waiting for a turn on Blue’s metaphorical coattails, when they would surely be rewarded. He had already accomplished such great things in the month since he had thawed – the reformation of the Minutemen, establishing Sanctuary, bartering a truce with some local lunatic named Pickman to pick off many of the local raider bosses. They were all inspired in a time when the status quo reigned supreme.    

Piper had taken the home closest to the bridge, feeling almost as if the proximity to incoming caravans would give her greater access to word from the rest of the world. It hadn’t. She and her sister still traded letters, but it was hard to track regional news from a place as remote as Sanctuary, and her career seemed to have stalled since moving here. Her recent team-up with the most popular vault-dweller in the Commonwealth had largely consisted of exploration and convincing other to join his lineup. Not quite the riveting headlines she’d hoped for.

Blue had taken notice of her disappointment and spoiled her by gifting a Carlisle typewriter. With it, Piper now wrote a local gazette, the _Sanctuary News-Letter_ (to pull another publication title from the history books), from the gutted kitchen of her house. After some help with removing the rotted and rusted cabinets and appliances, she now enjoyed a quaint little office with a steel desk and rolling chair. The overflowing ashtray beside the typewriter made her feel right at home.

She had begun her day by gathering her notebook, stuffing her pockets with pens and pencils, and headed out headed out into the development. At the beginning of each week, she began her rounds, making a stop at each foundation site to garner information. Music played over the speakers in Sanctuary, broadcasting the one channel that the Commonwealth seemed to share, not loud enough to garner attention from across the river, but at a level that remained festive and cheery. She wanted to pin that choice on Codsworth, as the robot obviously cared about things such as setting holiday tone. Today was Thanksgiving, and how very American to still celebrate conquest and genocide. This must have been the Enclave’s favorite holiday.

She made it all the way past the Minute Man statute on the other side of the Old North Bridge before the rank stench of Red Rocket assaulted her senses. Strong, their neighborhood mutant, had made a nest in the gas station garage; it reeked from the piles of trophy corpses on the ground – mostly mutated animals, thank God – and from the gore bags suspended above. Countless empty bottles of milk poured from the open garage door. The mutant only joined them for food, spending his day by the bridge where he could fight bugs and wandering mongrels all day. People were happy to let the mutant keep to himself. Although relatively tame and his strength in a fight unparalleled, Strong’s presence made folks uneasy, reminding them of friends and loved ones lost to mutant attacks and the terrible ways they’d died. Piper thought better of it, and turned back. Strong would have little to comment on, and what he did say couldn’t possibility go to print. 

Diverting her path, she closed the distance to the Concord water tower. MacCready had constructed a sniper nest and claustrophobic home there, stating that open floorplan of houses makes him nervous. When she knocked on the narrow doors, he yelled down at her to go away. She banged again, and he threatened to shoot her.

Back across the bridge she went, passing chugging turrets belching black vapor. A collapsed house on her left had been cleared. In its place stretched a long slab of concrete. At the center of the foundation, a trading post hosted local caravans – it was portly Lucas Miller and his guards today – while scavenging stations faced the street for collecting random scrap the people brought into town. A trough full of feed sat in one corner, at the ready for hungry Brahmin that wandered in. Piper had a stand with copies of her gazette nearby, should anyone wish to read.

After a harsh word from Miller, Piper moved on to the next place. John Hancock had predictably claimed the house with the chem station behind it – he’d been the one to point out its existence, in fact. He didn’t answer when she knocked on the doorframe. Of course he didn’t – it was before noon.

Nick Valentine resided next door, where Piper suspected he could keep an eye on the ghoul. They were old friends and Nicky was one of the few with the patience to put up with John. Good ol’ Papa Nick, always looking out for everyone else. His sound advice had saved her several headaches while they had both been in Diamond City. His secretary, Ellie, must be heartbroken to be without her mechanical crush, although Piper was almost certain Nick had no idea of her intentions. He might be a detective, but he was still programmed male, and therefore blind to such matters. Nick gave her a clipped warning regarding Blue and the events at Fort Hagen. “Keep your nose out of it, Piper. What happened there – it was personal.” The two of them had a long history of sharing information in Diamond City, and now she was being kept in the dark. She wanted to whack him with her journal in annoyance.

Deacon’s residence was beyond Nick’s, but he wasn’t home. Like that was a surprise. He tended to disappear and reappear as if by magic.

Oh, poor Blue. Blue’s house sat where it always had, quite a bit worst for wear than when it was purchased. She could see the Silver Shroud costume on a dressform dummy in the living room. Codsworth still lived there, along with Dogmeat. It was here that she picked up a shadow. The shepherd decided to join her, keeping at her heels for the rest of the day.

A newly-humanoid Curie was next door to Blue, where she could get the assistance she needed. Curie had only been in her synth body for a few weeks and, although walking and breathing were down pat, gaining full use of her hands had been slow, the dexterity of fingers very different from the pincers on her old Miss Nanny body. She couldn’t be trusted with a gun yet, and so she remained confined in Sanctuary for the time being, questioning traveling doctors that strolled through and struggling to take notes in sloppy scrawl. Piper felt bad for her, as she knew how much Curie wanted to see the Commonwealth. A little plastic skeleton hung in the bedroom window, where it had dangled for centuries. It was cute, and apt for someone shaping up to be their field medic. When Piper peeked in, she found Curie sitting on the floor, meticulously focused on picking up bobby pins one by one. Piper decided it would be unkind to interrupt.  

Their resident paladin lived in the blue house past Curie’s. Danse’s dialogue consisted of two options –  spouting about the glory of the Brotherhood of Steel, or complaining about everyone else. She had never seen anyone visit him. It was quite clear that he had no desire to be here, and was the odd man out in that regard. Everyone else found Sanctuary a pleasant retreat from their normal lives. Danse acted as though he was being punished by the order to stay on the premises. None of the tripwires at the door were set – he was home, the metal-on-metal sound a giveaway that he was working at his weapons bench. Piper had yet to see him without his armor on and had no idea why, as it seemed uncomfortable. “Hey, there, big guy. Feel like sharing?” She tried enticing him with a smile, only to be responded to by his usual stone cold and unwelcoming demeanor.

“Not at the moment.” He returned to his work and she left him to it, pausing at the door to make a face at his back. Like the Commonwealth needed more Brotherhood hype anyways.

Still following the trail of houses on her left, Piper neared the tree in the cul-de-sac. Its branches cast wavering shadows on the pavement, sunlight winking in between boughs. It was one of the biggest trees she’d ever seen. A red oak, Blue had pointed out to her. Whatever. A tree was a tree as long as it could make paper.

Temporary lodging had been erected on foundation plot on her left, a multi-level wooden structure that Preston Garvey oversaw. The man embodied an optimism too pure for the Commonwealth. When Blue had left, official leadership had fallen to Preston despite Danse’s vexation and vocal objection – they both had very different ideas on what a _better_ Commonwealth entailed. Well, too bad for Danse – Preston and the Minutemen were the ones that had originally wanted to rebuild the area, and what Blue said went largely unchallenged. He was the oldest, after all.

At the end of the block, a makeshift training yard had been set up on the foundation. Some new settlers were there, littering the firing range scattered with broken glass bottles, using weight and athletic machines brought in from who-knows-where, and striking the training dummies. Piper guessed that these people had little time to train when it wasn’t legitimately running for their lives. They were refugees from somewhere, though they refused to tell her where. She clutched her notepad tightly in frustration before resuming her stroll.

Afternoon sunlight beat against Piper’s back as she started the loop back with Cait’s home. The hissing cat décor on the doorway suited the fighter too well. Today was a good day – Cait spoke mostly in words instead of curses, meaning that she had a steady supply of Psycho on hand. When she was jonesing, smart people fled for their lives. “Bloody heads poppin’ off right and left,” Cait said, recalling a battle at some raider camp. “Ya shoulda seen it. Clean off at the neck.” Piper tried to be kind and listen, but she kept glancing over Cait’s shoulder to the barricade set up in the living room where the redhead often hid while high. Piper forgot to take notes.

Dogmeat ran a few circles around the playground and had begun happily digging in the garden plots before Piper nabbed him by the collar and pulled him away. An enormous mess hall had been erected on another stretch of vacant foundation. Enclosed on three sides by wooden wall and featuring a full roof, the hall was long enough to fit three picnic tables end-to-end to make one long arm of seating with room for Codsworth’s oven at one end. A cooking pot and rotisserie station sat in the open air of the mess hall’s patio, with racks of hanging fish lining one side. Two flags hung from tall poles: on the left, the old stars-and-stripes, on the right, the Minutemen standard. Here, they would meet, talk, and boast. Codsworth had been overjoyed at the instruction to cook for the lot of them, oblivious to their arguments and petty insults. Mealtimes could be strained. A motley bunch, not one of them agreed or had much in common. Without Blue’s influence, they would have had little to do with one another. Still, they met regularly, kept up appearances, and worked on the settlement. Every one of them wanted to be ready once Blue came back bearing a plan of attack against their one common enemy, the Institute.

The workshop was next to the mess hall, supervised by Sturges. The brawny man was a Buddhist, although he had trouble explaining what that was; even Piper wasn’t sure what that meant. Everyone brought their weapons and armor in to see how to best improve results. Sturges was always ready with a smile and a suggestion. When Danse left his house, this was where he tended to loiter, watching modifications with a stern eye.

The mall next door was being build atop another cleared foundation, staffed by passers-by desperate for stability. The process of building was tedious, as it was hard to get all the pieces to fit together on the first try. Once completed, all kinds of shops would spring up – bars, clothing emporiums and first aid stations to name a few. When that happened, it would surely be a topic to write about. She’d even find a pre-war camera to capture images on. Piper imagined a day when Sanctuary would compete with Diamond City for the capital. If Blue had his way, it wouldn’t take long.

When she had arrived back at her house, she promptly dropped her blank notebook and belly-flopped onto her bed. The mattress jiggled as Dogmeat hopped up to curl at her side.

What a waste of a day. She sat up, flipped her pad open and began penning a letter to Nat.

A jangling sound intruded over the croon of the harpies on the radio, and she rose to draw back a single, ragged curtain. Squinting through the dirty, broken window, she hoped for the chance to see a familiar figure trudging up the bridge, too much gear hanging at his sides. Nope. Blue was still gone. It was only a provisioner passing through, their loaded brahmin blowing froth from its nostrils.

A nudge at her knee, and she stooped to scratch at the shepard’s ears. “You hungry, boy?” The dog grinned and scampered in a tight circle. “Yeah, me, too.”

She cinched her jacket tighter and stepped out onto the driveway, Dogmeat doing his best to weave between her heels. A faint peach hue clung to the western horizon. Further upwards, above the crumbling rooftops, a deepening blue promised a swift nightfall.

There was a crash and the sound of ripping fabric from across the street.

She treaded to the road and looked both ways for anyone else to relieve her from inspecting this. When had she become the keeper of Goodneighbor’s mayor? “You wanna go get Nick for me, Dogmeat?” she asked. The shepherd whined and sat down on his haunches. “Guess not, huh?” Sighing, she stalked towards the house opposite hers, mood already sinking.

Tentatively, she stepped past the threshold and examined the interior. John’s provisional home was in state of disarray – one hell of a feat for a domicile that was mostly made of boards holding up a sagging roof. Broken glass and tipped furniture provided obstacles as she moved further inwards.

There was another banging thump from down the hallway and a flurry of papers exploded into the hall, each page independently pirouetting in the air before drifting gently to the floor. Dogmeat whined and lay down in the kitchen, muzzle pressed between his paws.

She trod timidly down the hall, glass crunching underfoot, and peered into what had once been an office. A powered terminal sat blinking on a desk on a corner. “Hey, uh, you lose something?” she asked. “Other than your marbles, I mean.”

John was in a corner, rocking a tall dresser, trying to wedge his scant body behind, attempting to swing it away from the wall. It must have slid too slowly for his liking – he settled for upending it and the rotten wood shattered into splinters. He crouched in the debris, red coat fanning the rubble in a half-circle, picking through the pieces, flipping chunks of wood away with flicks of his wrist. With an exasperated sigh, he stood, heaving up on knobby knees.

He pushed past her, momentarily pressing her against the doorjamb in an almost sensual manner, his dark eyes unfocused. Piper tilted her head back, letting him pass with her arms by her sides as she rolled her eyes. She remembered him as a human, good-looking and ambitious but not her type. Everything about him screamed _complication,_ even then.

She followed his path and found him on his toes, tossing long-rusted pots out of the upper kitchen cabinetry to land with hollow clangs on the dusty floor. Dogmeat yipped and scampered out of the way.

Piper crossed her arms, tapping her foot. “Well?”

The ghoul sank back to his heels, regarding her for the first time, blank confusion on his flesh-torn face. “I can’t remember. I know it’s gone though.”

A single moment of awkward silence passed. 

He abandoned the cabinets, launching into long strides, stepping over bits of furniture and shrapnel. “Now” – he raised a finger – “either that means it was extremely important and I’ve created a feedback loop to protect its location or” – he opened his palm – “it wasn’t that important to begin with.” He snapped his fingers before launching his hands into his pockets, searching, finally pulling out a tin of Mentats. Prying the lid off, he shook the tin at an angle. He popped a handful into his mouth, tablets crunching between his teeth, as he turned in a full circle, scanning the floor. “You ever misplace your hat and find out you been wearing it the whole time? Feels like this should be that simple.”

Having no idea what he was talking about, Piper felt drained. His ongoing antics and smart mouth exhausted her, exhausted everyone. She knew that on some level she should be frightened of him, but he seemed like more of a mess than a man and she could only be so terrified of a scattered ghoul barely taller than she was, even if his flesh was stretched to ribbons. A bell dinged in the distance, echoing down the street. “Let it be,” she advised. “It’s time for dinner.”

Preoccupied, his tongue rolled in his mouth, chasing the last of the Mentat dust. Holding hands to his hips, he tapped his fingers against his pelvis and blew a sigh, surrendering to defeat. “Right, then.”

They sauntered out into the road, sky having darkened a few shades more. Evenly spaced oil lamps flanked them every twenty feet, set to blaze on a rigid schedule by the robot butler. The balls of warm light cheered the potholed street. Piper kept half an eye on John as they walked, wary confusion still prevalent on his face.

Dogmeat fell into step, shoving his furry body between them. He lowered his head, bared his teeth and growled at the ghoul, taking a snap at his ankle. John skirted wide around the dog, picking up his heels. “Back down, mutt,” he grumbled.

She reached down to place a reassuring hand on Dogmeat’s scruff. “Don’t be a jerk,” she admonished. “He just misses Blue. We all do. Makes him nervous.”

John lit a cigarette, walking with alluring hip-rolling swagger that would have looked ridiculous on anyone but him. “Headin’ off into the Glowing Sea without one of us was a dick move,” he said, and blew smoke in twin plumes from his nasal cavity. Though usually at odds, Piper had to agree with him.

As they rounded a curve in the road a voice called from one of the rooftops, “Hey, Hancock, aren’t you overdue for sending a _Having a Great Time, Wish You Were Here_ greeting card to your fair city?” Spheres of yellow lamplight reflected off a pair of sunglasses. “Assuming, of course, that it hasn’t already been reduced to a smoldering ruin of urine-soaked mattresses and the charred bones of the unwashed masses.”

“Hey, Deacon, something came through on the caravan for you. Where’d I put it? Oh, here it is.” John pulled a hand from his pocket, middle finger aloft.

Piper made a sound that was half-raspberry, half-sigh. This was the rabble that she had left Diamond City and Nat for? Even though Blue had trusted Deacon enough to bring him here, Piper kept her distance, still unsure of him. She didn’t know much about Deacon other than him being a serial liar and a button-pusher. His smart mouth rivaled John’s, the combination of the two of them resulting in a slew of both hilarious and biting insults. Piper couldn’t raise a dispute. She was used to rubbing people the wrong way and it frequently worked in her favor. People tended to watch their mouths less once they got upset.

As they walked, she made an attempt at charity, telling John, “He doesn’t mean anything by it. He thinks he’s being funny.”

John gave the rooftop a dark look, blowing smoke. “He usually is. He’s also usually an asshole.”

Arriving at the mess hall, they found oil lamps and lanterns lit, warming the interior. Clusters of candles flicked on the ground, half-melted to the floor. An entire radstag rotated on the rotisserie, fat sizzling as it dripped into the fire. Codsworth hovered, happily humming to himself as he placed platters of cornmeal mash, roasted vegetables and stewed fruits on the picnic tables. Bottles of both beer and wine decorated the tabletops.

Piper and John split to take seats at opposite ends of the table. MacCready and Cait, the pair the youngest and roughest-grown of the bunch, chatted, comparing modifications they had made to their guns. “No firearms at the table, you lot!” Codsworth ordered, one of his optical stalks swiveling in their direction. The two of them narrowed their eyes at him, but slid their weapons under their seats. Nick Valentine grinned at the exchange. Although he never partook in the actual eating of food, his presence was consistent at mealtime get-togethers.

Curie took great care to fold a rag before placing it in her lap as a napkin. Deacon reappeared and slid in next to Curie. He began filling a plate for her. Previous meals had proven that he would also cut her food into bite-sized pieces. “Merci,” she said as a blush slid across her cheeks.

Quaking footsteps announced the arrival of Strong. “Puny robot waste time with plants. Should only cook meat to stay _strong_!” He rumbled a laugh at his own joke and lifted an entire radstag quarter off the cooking station spit, tearing into it without waiting for the others.

At the opposite end of seating, as far away from Strong as he could get without leaving the vicinity, Paladin Danse leaned against the wall rather than sat. His face was adorned in scars and harsh lines that crinkled the corners of his eyes, not from age, but from life. A tight hood ensured that his face was the only human part of him that showed. Perhaps he had gambled with radiation one too many times and was bald. Who knew.

Preston joined them with Sturges and a few Minutemen at his side, making their assembly complete. The colonel frowned, shoulder’s hunched tight in concern as he pulled his chair closer. “I’ve received word –”

“Shut up, Preston,” every last one of them answered. Preston set his mouth in a hard line, but one eyebrow quirked, accepting their words in good humor.

Oddly prompted by the push and pull of insults and comradery, Piper found herself missing her sister. When was Blue coming back? Was this her new family until then?

She heaped her plate full and picked up a fork. “So,” she addressed her captive audience, hesitating before tucking in. “What’s the news?”


	3. The Pull of the Moon

JOHN

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 22nd, 2287

Encased in a haze of soft focus, John chased his final bite with a handful of Mentats from a new tin. He poured moonshine into a glass, as not to be a heathen, and followed with lighting an after-meal cigarette. Codsworth had been persistent in providing for all the wanderers that put their feet up in Sanctuary, each meal a spread to outdo the last. If John didn’t get back on the road soon, he’d wind up fat and lethargic, incapable of a decent defense.

The entire community waited with baited breath for their founder to return, some on the promise of caps, some on the promise of change, the boy in blue a key player threatening to shove the Commonwealth off its axis. In the absence of action, too much time was spent talking. On hardships and unmet desires, they could all weigh in. In the dark of the night, conversations took dark turns.

MacCready, the youngest of them, held attention currently. Plucked from his own town, John may have held the marksman in higher esteem then the rest. It made him sick to listen to the family-man-turned-merc’s story. That same old story, the sudden loss of a loved one – they could all relate, although each dealt in different ways, either with chems, careers or grand delusions of revolution. No one made it through life unscarred.   

“Sometimes it’s too much, just too hard.” MacCready rolled a bullet between his fingers, his words falling with careful weight. “I think about ending it. To get off the ride. I think everyone does, if you wanna be darn honest about it.”

The paladin hummed thoughtfully. John risked a hasty glance in his direction before turning to flick ash. “Within the Brotherhood, suicide is an option that is heavily considered. Although I would never dream of considering that type of extremism…when there is no chance for reclamation, and all other options have been drained…such acts are generally deemed acceptable.” 

Smoothing out intent, MacCready’s smile went into overdrive, his cheeks turning red. He straightened his spine and put the bullet away. “It’s not like, ya know, I actually _would_. It’s just something I wonder about. A way out. Not like I ever meant it.”

John traced a finger around the rim of his glass. “I meant it,” he said, drawing his cigarette to his lips.

The shifting of seats and clank of dishware ceased. An oppressive silence fell with almost tangible force.

_Shit._

John froze, his lungs burning from the smoke held within them. He must be intoxicated; he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. There hadn’t been any emotion in his statement, just the simple sharing of a fact. A flutter of concern deep in his gut made its presence known. Since arriving, he’d suffered a few missing hours here and there, bouts of belligerence – more than normal – and now words bubbling up on their own accord. An obvious oversight due to irresponsible chem-mixing. John chided himself. He should know better.

Pinned by the paladin’s unblinking stare, John shrank in his seat. Too late to take his secret back, he had little choice but to own it. “What?” he asked the table. “Surprised?” He let his onyx stare drift to each individual. Plenty of them already knew that his conversion to a ghoul was still recent. Damn that Piper. “Thought _this_ was an accident?” he quizzed, waving at his face. “That I didn’t plan it? Think I just wander the Wastes looking for random needles stick myself with? Maybe I tripped and fell on it?”

Deacon propped his head up with one hand, looking nonchalant. “I dunno. Pretty sure I’ve caught you in more than one gutter over the years. Come to think of it – yeah, that is what I expect.”

Puffing on his cigarette, John said, “Thanks, sunshine. That makes my night.” A tremor built in one leg, rattling his ankle as he bounced a knee. “Shit was hard as hell to find, I’ll tell ya that. And cost more arms and legs then I have,” John continued. Why the fuck was he still talking? _Shut up, shut up_. His mouth didn’t comply. “Of course I knew what that florescent junk would do to me. But why the hell would I think I’d survive that?”

Deacon turned his head, his glasses angled directly at John. “Cuuuuz, you’re a delusional, reckless junkie with little regard for social norms, self-preservation or personal consequences?”

Something simmered inside of John, a pot on the verge of boiling. He held perfectly still, smoke rising from his cigarette to curl up into the evening sky, fearful of moving lest that pot slosh over. “Man, you are on fire tonight,” he said almost relevantly. 

“With you, pal, it’s far too easy,” said Deacon. “Just look at the trail you’ve left – ditching Goodneighbor, the mess in Diamond City, Atlantia City, New New York City –” The spy paused. “Wait. How many cities do I not know about? Pretty much any place you’ve stepped, right?”

John’s stomach turned, and he felt that pot boil over. Black and red and green all flickered through his vision. It pulsed, an ebb and flow of mounting sensation, driving him to act. John roughly slid off the bench and stood, flicking his cigarette over a shoulder, hand dropping to hover near his knife.

Within an instant, MacCready was standing as well, glaring down at the calmly seated Deacon. Preston followed suit, right after him. Tension crackled. “Whoa, now,” Preston drawled, holding out his hands.  “Let’s keep things civil.”

Predictably leaping to John’s defense, MacCready snapped at Deacon, “Don’t be such an assmunch, dicklord.”

Deacon whistled in response. “Boy, Mac – you kiss your wife with that mouth?”

_Boom._

MacCready launched himself over the table at Deacon, fingers outstretched, boots crushing delicate ceramic plates. Nick and Cait moved to grab him, catching him by the legs and knocking him off balance. MacCready slammed down, rolling in their grasp, kicking and flinging his arms. The rest stood to avoid his flailing limbs.

Drawn into the mess hall by the scuffle, Strong dropped large fists to the table, shaking it, sending silverware flying. “Little Man make big mess. Ha-ha! More!” The mutant slid his arm across the table, clearing what items remained unscathed and causing several people to duck for cover. Great. Now they had a delightfully agitated super mutant in their camp. Strong was normally benign, content to spend his days grumbling to himself, devolving into a problem only when triggered.   

Their Brotherhood representative was promptly at the ready, leveling the sights on his laser rifle square between the mutant’s beady eyes. “Calm yourself, atrocity, before I’m forced to take action.”

“Bah,” Strong snarled, cautiously stepping back into the shadows. “Bucket Head always destroy fun.”

John couldn’t argue with that.

The other diners poked their heads up as Codsworth hovered back from his main domicile clutching a still-steaming mutfruit pie. Alarmed beeping began as Codsworth took in the appearance of the mess hall. Glass and ceramic shards glittered on the floor, reflecting the glow from the oil lamps. Food smears painted the wooden walls. The pie splattered on the ground as the robot’s torso rotated in shock, spitting sparks. Vibrating, Codsworth shouted, “You lot! Do you have any inclination of how long it takes to get gravy the precise shade and viscosity without a proper roux? Not at all,” he answered for himself. “After all the trouble I go through day after day, this is how you rabble-rousers repay me? Pitch your childish fits elsewhere! Off with you! Off with you now!”

Apologies were mumbled all around, all of which were directed at the robot and none at their initial opponent. A few offered to help clean up, while others slunk away.

“Nice job, demagogue,” Deacon cut at John as they made their way back towards the western vicinity. “Just like Thanksgiving dinners growing up in Plymouth. With less small pox.”  

John spun, and bore his hot gaze straight though those ludicrous sunglasses. “Look, friend, you keep your comments and your slander to yourself or I swear to various deities that I will forever…” Words dissolved in his mouth like ash, mind voiding. John tried to snatch at them, but they floated just out of reach. Vexed, he tried to recall them. He snapped his fingers. “First word,” he mumbled to himself, “sounds like…” He waited, frozen, hardened gaze focusing on air. Nothing. Like his mind had been scrubbed clean with Abraxo. He dropped his hand. “Fuck.”

“Eloquently put,” Deacon responded, breaking away to attend whatever services he partook in, leaving John to ponder his turmoil.

Well, that was disconcerting. Something tapped against John’s brain, a warning he felt he should be able to place. He popped two more Mentats to urge insight to the surface, but remained blank. Maybe it was just the pull of the moon, lunar influence altering the tides, causing fish to climb up on land and ghouls to lose track of their comebacks.

Though the evening was late, life spilled from every corner of Sanctuary – low conversations over fires, the clatter and moo of roving Brahmin, the whirring motors of crafting stations, and the steady chug of generators. Laughter tinkled the air in faint notes as Dogmeat tore up and down the street, begging for scraps and ear-scratches. Sanctuary seemed to be making up for lost time and civilization, growing bigger every day.

He wandered the development for a time, night growing darker as he pulled various ingredients for chems from collapsed buildings, weaving his thin body around fallen lumber and jagged steel. He felt oddly at home in the rubble. It suited him – a hollow shell, inexplicably linked to something that no longer existed, forever standing in tribute. Pockets full to bursting, he returned home – hopping over piles of rubble left from his earlier flurry – and dumped scavenged ingredients into a bathtub. He ducked back outside and made his way to the bridge, shaking a canister of Jet along the way. He took a seat where the guardrail was broken, his too-large boots dangling as he huffed a pungent cloud of Jet.

It was nice to have a moment of nothing, just the trickling sound of water and his own slow breathing. Sections of housing had slid down the riverbank, debris piled high enough to stay dry if you walked on it. Rusted frames from cars knocked into the creek by the force of atomic backlash poked out of the water, an inviting shelter for schools of small, irradiated fish. Nights were getting colder; perhaps they’d get snow this year. He pictured the river below frozen into a sheet of ice, silvery-gray in the moonlight. 

His life had been a grab-bag of unintended surprises in the since arriving in Sanctuary two weeks prior. Too many of the vault boy’s new friends were people that John would have pointedly avoided if given the chance. For one fleeting moment, he’d considered spinning around and marching straight home once he’d seen what and who was waiting here. But fuck if he’d go back on his word. If he started breaking promises, what kind of leader would he be?

Discomfort was bearable, and easily negated with chems.  So he’d shielded himself with a sturdy smile and witty banter, biding time until he felt right about returning to Goodneighbor as a better man. Playing his role was easy enough – keep your smile closed-lipped and mysterious, your shoulders loose, neck straight and proud, and don’t stumble no matter how inebriated. If someone drinks, you join them. If someone’s hurting, spare a moment to listen. If someone proves problematic, you kill them. That kind of simplicity was comforting, a far cry from his convoluted history. John had been reckless with his life, wasting enormous portions of it. Moments like this, peace between bouts of turmoil, had come to be a luxury.

“Stay where you are,” a deep voice commanded, jolting John out of his reverie. The slim canister of Jet went tumbling into the river with a diminutive splash. What was left of John’s intact flesh crawled as he waited for a dot of laser sight to dance across his chest. Finding no pinpoint of light traveling over his clothing, John looked up. Every muscle in his body locked.

A hulking form loomed in the darkness near the entry sign. The ground trembled slightly with each step Paladin Danse took. Moonlight spilled into the upwards curve of his armor’s torso, bouncing the faintest trace of illumination up onto his hooded face, highlighting the deep circles under his eyes. He came to a stop several feet away from the ghoul, gauntleted arms hanging loose.

This was a long-ways away from Danse’s abode, as far apart as they could get. Had the guy wandered all the way down just to corner him? On the bridge alone, unarmed, and almost out of town, John braced for the worst. He seemed very small in comparison to the colossal suit of power armor.

Face stern, Danse said, “There’s something I feel I need to address.”

Tense apprehension became a growing heat that made him flush and causing his ears to pound. John glowered. He noted that the man was careful not to address him by name, to give him power by having an identity. “Leave me alone,” John muttered, still seated. “I ain’t bothering you. Fuck knows I go outta my way to give you clearance.”

Muscles twitched in the paladin’s jaw as he swallowed. “What you said at dinner…what you did to yourself…” His eyes dropped to focus on the slots of knot-holed wood that composed the bridge. “Was…was it because of what happened in Hartford?”

A pang. A twist in an old knife wound. John felt guiltily foolish for trying to be civil. He drew a sharp breath and steadied a condemning gaze at the paladin. “That’s your problem, Crew Cut – you think everything’s about you.”

Danse neither answered nor looked up. A neutral composure had claimed his expression. “I didn’t come here to cause unnecessary aggravation.”

A short, bitter laugh escaped John’s chest, a storm of emotion surging. “Course not. It’s all for the glory and splendor of the Brotherhood. That’s the only thing that matters. Did I get that right?”

Although Danse brought his eyes up, a crackle of fury building in them, he said nothing.

Standing, John brushed his pants off and noted, “See? Sometimes I listen. I don’t fuck up absolutely everything. Just most things.”

Predictably, those thick brows lowered, and a dark curtain fell over Danse’s bearing. He shook his covered head. “This was a mistake –”

“What part?” John snarled. “Coming here? Not staying where you belonged on your Lovecraftian diesel-ship with the rest of the bigots, slapping each other on the ass and washing the blood of _my people_ down the drain?” He circled wide around the immobile suit, Danse turning his head to follow him with fiery eyes. “You want a war to make you feel special. Well, pal – you aren’t special. You’re just like every other idiot that wears orange. And that war you’re so proud of being a part of? Maybe you brought it on yourself. Maybe you earn everything that gets handed to you, the bad included. Maybe you just get what’s coming.”

In the mind-numbing daze brought on by the Jet, John wasn’t sure who he was talking about anymore. He staggered, and backed away. “Don’t pretend to care about anyone who doesn’t wear the uniform,” John continued, edging towards his house, his voice rising. “Everyone’s on to you. I might be the most disgusting person here, but you’re the most reviled. By far. And you probably know it.”

John turned his back on the soldier and stalked home. After draining two warm beers in rapid succession and emptying the last of the Mentat tin, he lay on his thread-bare couch and let his thoughts churn. Anger, hurt, humiliation – fuck, nothing ever went right, did it? His respite in Sanctuary was meant to be liberation from the daily gruel of seeming unflappable, of emanating strength to keep Goodneighbor from dissolving into chaos. He’d just…he’d just wanting to run away for a little while, and set the mask aside.

Deep down, he knew everyone here was experiencing a crisis of faith, their ideologies challenged. A number of them would have gladly killed several others if not bound by honor, duty or caps to hold themselves at bay. In so many ways, Danse was his greatest threat. John balanced on a knife’s edge, unsure of what might set him off. But, he couldn’t really fault the man for acting predictably. Danse, if anything, was consistent.

“Mr. Mayor?” a voice called from his open doorway, backed by the sound of a rumbling propulsion system. Codsworth. John raised his head. “It’s Thursday,” the robot reminded. “Did you wish for me to make another anonymous delivery?”

“Uh…sure.” John sat up, shaking his head to startle himself into momentary clarity. The implications of _not_ sending the package could be dire. “Yeah. Why not?” He stumbled about in the dark, trying several drawers and containers until he recalled where he’d put it. Sliding a roll of cloth out from under his mattress, he made his way back to the front room of the house. Wooden splinters and glass shards crackled as he stepped on them.

“Here ya go,” he said, handing the package to Codsworth, who clasped it in his pincers. “Now, what’d I say?” John urged.

“No implications, Sir. Very hush-hush.”

“You got it.”

The butler rumbled off, leaving John isolated with his thoughts once more. He lay back on the couch with a second canister of Jet and breathed it deep. He felt heavy, worn and ancient, several lifetimes already behind him.

His eyes closed, and he sank into a gentle abyss far from the bitter reality of his waking moments.


	4. Propaganda and Paraphernalia

DANSE

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 22nd, 2287

Bluish hues of moonlight shone down on a still and tranquil night, though Danse fumed too hotly to appreciate it. He wandered on a northerly route through Sanctuary Hills, weaving around fallen timber that clogged the roadway, careful of where a misstep could cause his armor to topple. He might as well begin clearing the logs tomorrow, his reinforced strength allowing him to easily roll trunks to the curbs where they could be scrapped for lumber. Having to undertake to such an inane task was beneath him, but apparently necessary in this poorly managed bastion.   

Knight Sterling’s venture into the Glowing Sea was tactically irresponsible, leaving Sanctuary without its General. Danse was clearly the best choice to have accompanied him. Sterling had gone without leaving him a definitive task to accomplish. He was on his own.

The dormant period between missions always bothered Danse. Nothing to kill, no plans to be made, no orders to follow, no tactics to undertake. Some soldiers welcomed the break, spending their leaves acting foolish and irresponsible outside of their base, forgetting that their representation of the Brotherhood was an unending commitment.

It had been five years since Danse had voluntarily left the Citadel. Even without the immediate requirement of field missions, there was still so much he could do – grooming Arthur Maxson for Eldership, overseeing personnel assigned to the Prydwen’s construction, reintegrating the Outcasts, tending to strained relations with Capital civilians, and making reparations to Rivet City. It would have been a shame to waste all that free time on unnecessary leisure.

He’d witnessed public opinion of the Brotherhood soar and die twice in his lifetime. Securing the Capital under Lyon’s regime had been an enormous humanitarian effort, and had caused such internal conflict that the Brotherhood had been split in two. And the Wasteland’s adulation over the success of Project Purity had been short-lived once the decision to appropriate Rivet City’s reactor had been put into effect. Gone were the days when citizens had willingly offered up their crops and livestock, children cheering at the sight of an armored patrol walking the streets, or being offered ice-cold Nuka Colas instead of being pelted with rotten produce and booed. 

 _A wolf doesn’t lose sleep over the opinions of sheep._ Arthur had come across that quote as a young man, had clung to it, and repeated it often. Danse envied his Elder’s unshakable faith. Each death under Danse’s command had compiled, affecting his conscience. His nights were full of second guesses a moment too late, memories of his men sent home in boxes or left in haste, becoming fodder for the creatures of the Wastes, playing on a vibrant loop, the same picture show each evening.

This assignment was two-fold – accompany his new knight’s ventures and guide his decisions with a heavy hand towards Brotherhood ideals, or assess Knight Sterling as a threat to their fragile hold on the region and execute him. That second option was strictly covert. Arthur Maxson was coolly efficient, not one to waste time on court martials or lengthy trails. The principles of the Brotherhood were black and white, no shades in between. Danse found the candor of his service to be a relief. He enjoyed structure and consistency, happy to maneuver within parameters, cautious of what might happen should he have to form his own opinions. In his youth, he had nearly been led astray, hating the moments when he had questioned his role.

A lapse in judgement had led him to confront that echo of a man on the bridge. How dissatisfying. What outcome had he expected? It wasn’t as if the two of them would reach a mutually-acceptable understanding. The ghoul – _John_ , he unpleasantly recalled – had made his bed and should be expected to lay in it. He had been right in chastising Danse, however, owing him no explanations. That was Danse’s fault for deviating from his duties to wax nostalgic on matters that didn’t concern him.

Still, the ghoul’s words had hit home. The number of Minutemen affiliates grew each day. They could learn so much by accepting the Brotherhood’s lead yet, for whatever reason, selected to focus on farming and the salvation of otherwise acceptable casualties in lieu of enforcing law and control over the land.  Danse should have been the embodiment of inspiration, recruiting left and right. Not to serve in the Brotherhood, no – Knight Sterling had been a rare exception – but to ensure the reclamation of crops and supplies, to secure eyes and ears in the Commonwealth that would readily feed information back to the Prydwen. Instead, the ghoul had been right. Danse existed as a pariah within the Minutemen base, shunned instead of revered.

As the mess hall came back into view, he spotted the females chatting and finishing cleanup, Cait’s curse-laden voice louder than the others’. It was no secret that the girls felt outnumbered and were quite vocal about that fact. He supposed, should the boundaries of programming and species be pushed, three to nine would be an accurate ratio of those hand-picked by Sterling to be operatives in his militia. Over two-hundred years and the stigma was still hard to shake. Peeling posters of women in pearls happily serving their husbands hot meals still hung in many establishments, a gentle nudge and reminder of their proper place circa 2077.

In the Brotherhood, women had only begun to serve in field positions – Sarah Lyons a champion for that cause – and even then, the decision was due to a drop in the number of servicemen, not a shift in ideology. Danse grimaced. A shame really; he preferred the company of women over the tumultuous feelings that came with associating with other men. Though he had done his share of fretting over intolerance in a faction fraught with machismo, his own internal battle over what was proper and acceptable was unimportant. It was simpler, and preferable in the eyes of his superiors, to fully endorse the Codex. To suggest otherwise was heresy, an outrageous idea that Danse had long since aborted.  

A shadowy figure sat on the curb opposite the mess hall, patiently still and looking straight ahead. Danse ran through a quick roster of who it might be. _Of course_ , he sourly thought, placing the individual. The Railroad agent, Deacon. The tall, raven-haired man arrived a few days ago, and had taken to lurking on the periphery, loitering atop houses, feigning care for the garden, walking in and out of the settlement hidden amongst caravans, popping out of the surrounding woodland when least expected. He was an unpredictable element, and therefore, dangerous.

The vague outline of Deacon shifted. Shrouded in darkness, he removed his sunglasses, cleaning the lenses with the hem of a worn and holey shirt. Danse’s brows lowered. The evening’s heated dialogue, only a few hours old, still tasted bitter. Singling out a fellow companion for public ridicule, regardless of justification, was a deplorable scenario. Such acts lowered morale and caused additional, lasting impacts on teamwork. A reprimand was in order. As the senior-most ranking officer in town, it was Danse’s duty to deliver it.

He took few paces down the road when he stopped short.

Sterling’s robotic butler emerged from beyond the firelight of the cooking stations and floated back into the mess structure, sputtering thanks and shooing the women away to continue his – its – duties. The girls split up, each heading toward their own households. The tiny synth woman, Curie, hurried in Deacon’s direction, small feet skipping across the asphalt as the man rose to greet her. They stood together for a time, shoulders leaning towards one another, sharing words, subtle touches, Deacon’s head tossed back in laugher, merriment mirrored by Curie’s shy giggles.

Watching the two of them, Danse’s stomach turned. It was a fault in Deacon’s training to consider romantic entanglements with a synth, something incapable of returning sentiment or fully grasping the sick nature of the situation. Especially with Curie, who was even less than a synth, absolute proof of the Railroad’s insanity.

Deacon had arrived in Sanctuary just in time for Curie to receive her mockery of a human body. Danse briefly recalled the clean, white chassis of the Miss Nanny unit that followed Knight Sterling about. It had been a perverse abuse of science to upload a robot’s programming into living tissue. That Nanny unit should have been immediately scrapped for even suggesting such an atrocity. Sterling definitely owed Cade a full mental evaluation for endorsing it.

After a few final soft words, Curie ducked into her house. Deacon’s face locked onto Danse’s, picking him out of the night. Danse cursed himself, realizing that it was impossible to remain inconspicuous while standing in a street in full armor.Closing the distance between them, Danse took heavy, resolute steps.His empty fusion core beeped as the system replaced it with a fresh one.

“I find your lack of discretion disturbing,” Danse scolded, coming to a stop before the other man. “If it’s your intent to throw the entirety of Sanctuary off kilter, you’re well on your way to doing so.”

“I think that was almost a compliment,” Deacon said, one brow quirking. “What got your metal undies in such a bunch?”

“What you did tonight with that young mercenary and…and the ghoul…was unacceptable. Intentionally aggravating allies for your own amusement is reprehensible, not to mention uncouth.” Danse tried to simplify, should Deacon be too obtuse to understand, by amending, “It’s not becoming for someone of your stature within the… _Railroad_ …to act so childish.”

Deacon blew a dismissive breath. “Oh, switch out of your judgy-pants and into something more comfortable, will you?” he said, giving with a dismissive flick of his hand. “I’m no idiot. I’m an asshole on purpose. I don’t need to be _friends_ with these people. Hell, that’s the last thing I want. But the fact is, I’ve got to stay put. Orders are orders. Sometimes you can fight ‘em. Sometimes you can bend ‘em. But you’ve gotta have faith that they’re there for a reason.” The squaring of his shoulders divulged restrained defensiveness. “And Curie? She isn’t your business. What she and I do – or don’t do – doesn’t affect you. So, back off,” he added coldly.

 _Orders._ Hmm. Danse begrudged the spy, a soldier in the wrong army, a smidgen of respect for his loyalty.

As a warning, Danse avowed, “Additional verbal attacks on members of this company won’t be tolerated.”

“Yeah, yeah. Noted. Play nice or you’ll sit me in a corner. Does the same go for you, or am I just special?”

Harsh words, not yet twenty minutes old, echoed in Danse’s mind. _‘I might be the most disgusting person here, but you’re the most reviled.’_

At a loss, Danse stepped away, his jaw tight with humiliation. He could only pray that it was dark enough to hide the heat setting his cheeks ablaze. Tearing his gaze away from Deacon’s smug face, he faded into the night, servos whirring in his knees as powerful legs carried him home. Inside his armor, his limbs filled with a buzzing sensation. He felt exhausted and upset, woozy, with that slight drunken feeling that came after a long day following a rough night battling insomnia.

An emaciated tree towered over the round-about, its dappled shadows crawling along the pavement like vines. He had chosen one of the decrepit homes in the quiet end of the development, in a cul-de-sac where he could pretend not to be there.

The knight had chosen to build defenses at the bridge but had neglected to secure the opposite side of the expansion. If there was to be an unprecedented attack, it would come from the northeast. He was certain of it – the dense population of the temporary housing structure next door would prove too tempting of a target. Danse had taken it upon himself to be the first line of defense for those few civilians. He had to keep trying, to press forward, no matter how many failed missions collected under his belt. Those people were homeless and destitute, simple farmers with broken families, not disciplined fighters. Danse was good with action, not words, and preferred to offer simple security instead of governance; such matters were Colonel Garvey’s concern, or Sterling’s.

He turned to his domicile, once painted powder blue. A fire can on the porch threw faint trances of golden light to illuminate broken windows. He paused at the threshold, squeezing broadened shoulders through the frame at an angle. Moonlight valiantly fought its way in through the windows and exposed sections of wall, intent on granting Danse just enough light to recognize shapes. He stopped, nearly wedging himself in his own doorway.

A cloth wrapped package tied in string sat on his reconstructed kitchen counter. A gift. The second one in as many weeks.

He ducked inside and guardedly approached it before bringing up a hand to tentatively tug at the diminutive bow with thick metal fingers. The package unraveled. Seven syringes rolled across the countertop.

Calmex. Rare. Expensive.

His fists clenched at his sides. Feeling a rush of heat, suffocating inside his armor, he spun, leveling a vicious punch to a broken refrigerator’s door, denting the metal. He dealt a second blow with his opposite hand, folding the door inwards, hinges squealing. A third and final impact followed, forcing the unit into the wall behind it, plaster cracking into spider-web patterns that stretched to weave outwards. He stepped back, flexing the metal joints in his fingers, remembering to breathe.

Swallowing hard, a flutter of emotion held at bay, he strode to one side of the parlor and squared himself within the frame of the armor station erected there. With a hiss of compressed air, he stepped backwards out of his suit. Rigging hooks into the shoulder eyelets of his armor secured it. He twisted the fusion core out and set about rigging his standard tripwires. There was no such thing as being too cautious. The triggers attached to laser pistols, things that would cause damage but not destroy the entire living room. Everyone knew better than to enter the blue house uninvited. Codsworth had lost a limb showing up to clean one day. It had been reattached, but the robot had not returned to maintain the property since.

Danse scooped up the package of syringes, gripping them with whitened knuckles. Whirling on his heel, he stomped down the hall, going deeper into the dim house. He passed a dilapidated bathroom with a chipped tub, loose ceiling tiles dangling above it. A bedroom facing the street housed his weapon bench, boxes full of liberated technical documents, interesting bits of salvaged robotics stored in trucks, and heaps of pre-war microscopes ready to be broken down for complex parts.

Turning left, he ignored the front bedroom and entered the secondary bedroom at the back of the home. It was smaller than the other one, tight enough for a single bedframe, a footlocker on the ground, and a side table with one drawer remaining. A naked table lamp sat on top of the dresser. Danse tossed the package on the bed and flicked the bulb on; white florescent light filled the room, escaping out of cracks in the wall. After tucking the fusion core into the footlocker, Danse shrugged out of his orange interface suit and pulled the hood off to release thick, dark hair. He neatly folded his attire and placed it next to the core.

He sat heavily on his dilapidated mattress and longed for a door. Crisp evening air seeped in around the weather-beaten Brotherhood of Steel flag he used as window covering, making the skin on his back prickle. He nudged the cloth open and fanned syringes out beside him in an arc. Packed full of soporific benzodiazepines, Calmex was a tormented soldier’s fondest dream. He had more in the end table drawer, just a few that rolled around each time he opened it. While steadily supplied, he refused to use one every night, though perhaps he should.

It was no secret that his demons plagued him nightly. This was an old battle, and possibly why no one visited. A broken, battered soldier with tendencies to relive ineffective combats at the edge of consciousness each night made for a poor neighbor. He didn’t dare ask Cade for assistance, and he done his damnedest to prevent Haylen from guessing that he lay awake at night, feigning sleep until sunrise.

Only one person had known firsthand the depth of his restlessness, of the terror that hid behind his eyelids. Before the first package appeared on his counter, Danse hadn’t touched Calmex in years, stubbornness and pride preventing himself from doing so. The Brotherhood didn’t care. Many a brother boosted performance with Buffout, leaned on Med-X when appropriate. This decision was Danse’s alone, a way to cut himself off from the irrational choices of his past.

Danse selected a single hypodermic, rolling it between his fingers, turning it over again and again, a numbness already promising to spread inside of him. He was far from base and lacked immediate orders or even a commanding officer. Exhaustion that had little to do with the night’s events gnawed at his being. Memories, so carefully held at bay, threatened to creep into his subconscious.

He pried the cap off the needle and selected a raised vein. A slight prick in his arm and it was done. The other syringes went into the drawer, the empty one disposed of.

Danse lay back and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he could begin again, to instigate something extraordinary and prove his worth, or to stagnate in the monotony of inactive service. The choice was his.

He hated those options.  


	5. Human Kindness

STRONG

Red Rocket Truck Stop, MA

November 23rd, 2287

Blood looks black on pavement, pooling beside cauldron propped on concrete blocks. “Stupid two-face come too close,” Strong mutters to himself, stripping skin from radstag carcass. “Too tame. Weak.”  Both skulls is crushed, bones mashed by Strong’s sledgehammer. Meat will go in gore bag, one of many that hang from eaves of squat building.

He would not become tame. No – he was super mutant. Human shows respect, knows that Strong does not need him to survive. Bah. Not like others that live in crumbling houses in small village beyond the bridge. Feeble, they needed to form a herd.

Not all grouping is bad. Killing and sharing together is good. Human, the one that found Strong; he kills. Human shares with Strong – gave Strong entire station to own. Red Rock-It smell like home, of blood and metal and roasted bone marrow. Human good leader, and not bad fighter, even if he not eat enough enemies. Needs to use fists more, not words. Human learns fast; does not try and talk with Strong much. Takes Strong with him to kill many raiders. They cheer afterwards. Is good time.

Strong not see Rex anymore. Sad to not have Mack Beth stories. So much blood in them; seems made for mutant ears. Rex wore fancy clothes, not good for fighting. Human wears second, bright blue skin, tight, easy to move in, but looks funny. Strong wears little – only fabric, wire, metal and bones. Not need much else.

Has Human returned? Strong not know unless go into Bleeder Town on other side of bridge. Strong licks blood from hands while traveling to road. Sky is clear today with tiny cloud puffs. Is chilly for frailer creatures, but not bother Strong.

As Strong cross bridge and step onto black asphalt, turrets wobble, bases shaken by big footsteps. In workshop, a radio plays, making noise, always making noise. Humans have radio on all day long, shrill voices scratching though speakers.

Strong goes to Human’s house. “Human! Human, you inside?”

Yelling make Dog bark and Robot say, _No, Human not home_.

Human probably die. Strong unsure of what to do if this true. Join other mutants? No. Be alone forever? That okay. Strong capable. Can stay at Red Rock-It home. If starving this winter, come back to Bleeder Town and eat other humans. Good plan.

Heading back to bridge on way home, Strong slows, curious about why all different humans not shoot each other. Many clustered by big garden area. DeeCan sits by big sign, on stone barrier that separate town from river. He talking to Not Robot Lady – who used to be Robot Lady – while others work at farming puny vegetables on the hillside. Not see BucketHead. Good. Strong instructed not to kill man in armor clothing. Not want to make Human angry.

Although midday, Hand Cock staggers out of house, squinting at sunlight and weaving drunkenly across street to reach others, cutting in front of Strong. Little ghoul is scrawny. Would be easy to snap his bones. Ghouls taste gamey, pungent, almost sour. Most mutants not like taste, but meat is meat.

“Our pruney protagonist appears,” DeeCan calls, grinning widely at Hand Cock. “Long night of baking and blitzing, huh? Joining Goodneighbor in spirit? Hey, if Diamond City’s the Green Jewel, does that make Goodneighbor the Sky-High City?”    
Ghoul stops an arms-length from him. “I’m gonna stop letting you in the front gate,” he says, the words dry.

A shrug. Deecan adds, “Like I couldn’t find another way in. Everybody’s welcome, right? I think I remember the slogan from the Wasteland Motorist Guide – _Come for the blackjack and hookers, stay for the tuberculosis and venereal diseases_!”

Hand Cock’s shoulders roll, draws himself up to appear larger. “Insult my city one more time. C’mon. I’m beggin’.”

The hint of violence gives Strong glee, causes an ugly smile to crack. Men and their words. Silly, hurtful, unnecessary, causing more damage than any enemy, driving one another to fight even without the presence of danger.

“I was in a college production of La Bohème. Lead soprano. I remember the footnotes. Inappropriate pride in poverty, always trying to stick it to the Man, the sickly dying in the streets,” Deecan lists, still sitting on the wall, tapping heels on stone. “If the whole façade of Goodneighbor is just one big piece of performance art, hell, I’d throw ten caps in your hat. And intentionally letting the poor die to keep up the illusion, wow, that’s method. I don’t give you nearly enough credit.”

Strong not know what this means, but is happy when Hand Cock starts fight. Ghoul moves fast, slam shoulder into DeeCan’s stomach. Deecan grips opponent’s coat, pulls ghoul with him as he falls backwards off wall. They grunt and topple, roll down the bank in blur of red, white and blue clothes – like banners that hang all over Commonwealth. Both land with big splash in river.

Strong runs closer for better view, is joined by the others, all peering down into the waterway. Mack Reedy chases them down the grade, torn coat flapping behind him. He yells at them to stop. Strong claps in delight at the disorder, slapping his knees and cheering. Little Lady in hat slap Strong’s arm. “Don’t encourage them!” she say. Puny human does not know entertainment.

DeeCan and Hand Cock stand. They circle each other, water up to knees. Hand Cock leaps, bead of water flying from edge of coat. He catch DeeCan around waist, knocks him into river again. They wrestle and roll, not saying words but making primal noises instead. 

Hand Cock get lucky, plants knees on DeeCan’s chest, pins him. He grasp at DeeCan’s throat, teeth bared. With grating snarl, he holds human’s head underwater. DeeCan splashes and kicks, trying to push ghoul off.

More voices now, coming over the ridge. Humans dumb. More yelling make more people nervous, makes them not think. Dog runs up and down bank, barking, adding to chaos. Hat Man stays atop crest, warns other humans away.

Mack Reedy charge into river, runs towards fighters. He grab handfuls of Hand Cock’s coat, pulls at him, shouts for him to let go. “Hancock! _John!_ Stop! You’re gonna drown him!”

Water explode in all directions as BucketHead jumps down from the bridge, landing in river. BucketHead grabs Hand Cock with metal hands and pulls him out of water, tossing him away from DeeCan and onto bank. Hand Cock land hard, rolling once before stabilizing on all fours. He raises head, unhinges jaw and gives vicious roar.

Strong knows this sound, think everyone might – is attack sound ferals make. That sharp, high-pitched noise make skin crawl and cause Strong to worry about whole pack appearing from tree line. Ferals move fast and swarm enemies, are hard to fight when there are many.

Ghoul’s eyes do not glow, stay black as always. Is wrong for feral ghoul. They should burn yellow-gold. Strong is confused. Confused makes Strong angry, eager for more violence.

No guns are drawn. It is strange. The humans are frozen. Buckethead’s mouth hangs open. He does not breathe. Mack Reedy and BucketHead, both still in stream, look at each other. BucketHead reaches for his laser rifle. Mack Reedy has wide, scared eyes. He shakes his head, begs, “Danse, don’t! Find another way!”

BucketHead swallows, nods, lowers hand. He launches forward. Steel fingers catch ghoul by his coat, keep him held at distance. Hand Cock swipes at his face with gnarled fingers, out of reach, nails scratching at metal-encased arms. Maybe new feral too stupid to get out of coat and free himself. Looks funny, the way the two of them dance in shallow river, Buckethead trying too hard not to hurt ghoul.

Loud Lady charges down the bank, steel-toed boots churning up small rocks, a canvas sack in her hands. Hand Cock roars again, body writhing, trying to break free. The female drops the sack over ghoul’s head, twisting the opening, holding it secure. Roboman and Mack Reedy join them, grabbing Hand Cock’s kicking legs. With BucketHead bellowing orders, the group begins to move, carrying Hand Cock as he bucks and slashes with ridged fingers, hissing and yowling, up the road to the houses.

Music still plays, voices on radio singing happy songs, not caring about fight in the river or black-eyed ferals.

Hmph. Humans should leave feral ghoul alone. Should release far away, where it can hunt and be free. World is big place, plenty of areas without people. Could be prize for someone if it attack another human again. Ferals are brittle, easy to kill. Strong could crush with a hand. _One_ , Strong reminds himself, _not many_. Many ferals make too many targets. Too easy for one to slip by and tear guts.

But not Strong’s problem. Strong lumbers through river and up other side of embankment, leaving wide footprints in wet soil. Has meat bag to string up, which is task for now. There will be more talking – always more talking. Others will certainly have meeting about ghoul. Talk and talk about what to do.

Strong stops in the road, has troublesome thought.

If Human not return…how long until bleeders have meeting to talk about Strong?


	6. What Are Friends For?

MACCREADY

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 23rd, 2287

MacCready wasn’t in the habit of defending ferals. Then again, he had never seen a ghoul turn, much less a ghoul he was actually fond of.

His former Mayor was trussed and secured within the root cellar at the back of Danse’s adopted house, handcuffed and straining around a pipe. It had been difficult to secure him; enhanced ghoul strength made it necessary to assign someone to contain each flailing limb. Danse, in his armor, had absorbed most of the assault without complaint, savage scratches leaving no mark on the metal.

The situation left MacCready sickened and torn. Despite the sound of feral snarls making his blood run cold, his quick tongue had bought time, skillfully placing doubt and inciting hesitation. He was thankful for his rusty mayoral peace-keeping tendencies. Dealing with panicky adults wasn’t too different from calming irrational children.

With heavy steel doors distancing them from the monster below Danse’s house, the boss’s main group of heavy-hitters had reconvened under the eaves of the workshop, squeezed tight into the crowded space. MacCready was seated on the edge of a workbench with his hands between his knees, a cornucopia of parts heaped on either side of him. The others shuffled, rubbed cold hands together, stole nervous glances at each other and neglected to address the matter at hand. They were scared. MacCready couldn’t blame them. Even the paladin looked stunned.

Deacon picked at the holes in his shirt, the fabric torn on his tumble down the rocky embankment. “Aww…that was my favorite shirt. Went with everything.” He knelt to pick through the boss’s piles of crap shoved against the workshop walls, seeming unfazed in his sunglasses.

MacCready’s tight lips frowned. _What the heck did the boss see in this guy?_ The spy was a nomad with multiple personas and foggy intentions, intent on pushing buttons to see what people would say. If he’d just kept his mouth shut, maybe things wouldn’t have…maybe John’d still be…maybe they could have caught the change in time to do…something…anything.

“I didn’t know it could happen so fast,” Piper admitted, voice timid, finally raising the issue. “If he was getting worse the whole time, I didn’t see it. I just thought he was chem-loopy.” Her hands were tucked under her arms, chilled by the fall weather or the state of affairs. “I mean…I didn’t notice.” She glanced around. “Did anyone notice?”

Some people shook their heads. Others stared at the ground. They were all out of their element. Of late, life had been a revolving door of trading places, risking lives, and pet projects. Caught up in personal agendas and inclinations, MacCready could see how they, as a unit, had failed to keep an eye on their fellows.

“He was bloody mad from the get-go,” Cait chimed in, absently nudging a toe into a crack in the concrete driveway. “Who’s to say he ain’t always been that way?”

“He wasn’t always,” Valentine responded, lighting a new cigarette. “Back before the hammer fell –” the old synth pinned Piper with a glare that made her scowl “– he was different. Fewer eyes on him in Goodneighbor, though. Even less on the road. No telling how fast he’s been declining.”

Preston shuddered, laser musket gripped tight in his hands. “I don’t feel right with the cellar being so close to the refugee shelter. Keeping it down there’s a bad idea.” He caught himself, blinked, and stammered, “I mean, _him_ – _it_ – I…I don’t know anymore.”

 _Him. It._ Clearly, no one was willing to say John’s name.

“Look, this doesn’t have to be our call,” MacCready offered, rubbing calloused palms together in a weak attempt to settle his nerves. “We can hold off on doing anything. This doesn’t have to be on us. It can be the boss’s decision.” He felt fleeting remorse at trying to pass responsibility onto his absent employer, for wasting time, putting people in potential danger and being a sentimental idiot.

Eyes, concerned and confused, landed on him.

“Feckin top rate idea, that is,” Cait grumbled. “You wanna leave it in there ‘til he gets back? _If_ he gets back? With all of us sleeping nigh fifty feet away? We should put it down and be done with it.” 

Indistinct murmurs sprang up on all sides.

MacCready tried to swallow, his throat gone dry. “Look,” he said. “I’m not saying that we _don’t_ do it _,_ I’m saying that we _wait_. It’s… _he’s_ just one feral. We can handle one. We can wait.”

Valentine puffed on his cigarette, a pile of butts at his feet. A draft caused a few to roll about. “For what – tall, dark and cobalt to come riding in and wave a magic wand? Hemming and hawing won’t change the facts.”

“Now, now,” interjected Codsworth. “We are not savages, nor vigilantes. Surely, a verdict can be withheld until Mr. Nate returns.”

MacCready sighed. Although loyal, Codsworth didn’t have the capacity to fully understand the situation. Confined to the relative safety of Sanctuary, the robot had never dealt with more than a few frightened humans shooting low-grade bullets.

“A duck is a duck,” Deacon cited, twisting an arm onto a tiny Sentry Bot model. “No pretending it isn’t. This has gotta be handled, and fast. Who’s to say that having one feral here won’t draw others in? One might not be worth writing home about, but a whole pack of ‘em? Now that’s the stuff of nightmares.”

Preston nodded in agreement, dark eyes downcast. “No disagreeing. The safety of Sanctuary has got to be the priory. We can’t afford to wait.”

Piper cleared her throat. “So, uh…how do we choose who does it? Do we…do we draw straws?”

They all dropped their eyes and shifted uncomfortably. Someone coughed.

This all felt surreal, like MacCready was watching a B-roll loop playing at a derelict drive-in. He glanced back up. Curie was bent over the chemistry station in the back of the garage, her fist around a pen, scribbling sloppy notes and paying the forum little mind, a soft breeze ruffling her short hair. Several paces from the main group, the paladin stood amid the brown-tipped grass with his chin tucked low, brows knitted, golden sunlight glinting off polished metal plating.

It was too damn nice of a day to have this macabre conversation.

John Hancock never turned his back on anyone in need. It had been his creed, and Goodneighbor’s as well. He had sheltered MacCready when he ran from the Gunners, kept him safe at a risk to the entire town. And now, a group of humans – all smoothskins – were going to pass the final verdict on him.

Grunting in revulsion, MacCready’s fingers played absently over the face of his broken watch. When he and Lucy had first arrived in the Commonwealth, the newly minted McDonough-run Diamond City hadn’t offered much in the line of his type of work. A fortuitous visit to the Dugout Inn had resulted with him being promptly, and discreetly, directed towards Goodneighbor instead. The watch had been a welcoming wedding gift from the town’s mayor. _Enjoy the time you’ve got_ , John had said as he handed the bauble to MacCready’s blushing bride, her stomach swollen in pregnancy. _Best not to dwell on the parts that don’t mean jack._ Lucy had given it to MacCready after scratching an inscription into the back with the steel tip of a pin. An _L + RJ_ encased within the rough outline of a heart pressed against the skin of his wrist.

He had lied. Well, he’d lied plenty of times, but last night he’d told one heck of a whopper. After Lucy’s death, he had been bereft, alone with an infant, and actively sinking into a darker and darker pit of despair. In what had been the most selfish and melodramatic moment of his life, he had placed Duncan in the back seat of a car he’d found dangling precariously over a low bridge, the surface of irradiated Potomac a flat green-gray beneath it. MacCready had climbed into the driver’s seat and – just to make sure – secured the vehicle’s restraint across his chest. In a fit of heightened desperation, he’d rocked the car fiercely, causing it to groan as the front end pitched forward. For the briefest instant, when the vehicle was in mid-plummet, the silver skies of the Capital Wasteland shimmering on the surface of the river, he’d felt peace, a serene moment stretching time, promising quiet and an end to the pain of losing his wife.    

All that tranquility shattered the instant the car slammed into the surface, jolting him in his seat and causing Duncan to screech in terror. In sudden panic, he’d unlatched the restraint and scrambled into the back seat as the car leisurely sank. Snatching Duncan up, they’d escaped out of the broken rear window, MacCready paddling madly towards the shoreline as the car was swallowed whole by the Potomac. He had sat for hours on the bank, shivering, crying into Duncan’s blanket while the sun had set.

After that, he hadn’t trusted himself, not with Duncan and not with his own life. At nineteen years-old, MacCready had been overwhelmed with the prospect of becoming the worst type of grown-up – a single-parent desperately scrabbling to get by, the need to provide caps offsetting the ability to watch his child grow up. He’d left his son in the care of the only person he trusted in the Capitol, took the first job headed out of town, and ran.

Running. Drunk in the VIP room at The Third Rail, he and John had frequent conversations about running. The shame of it. The necessity. Of never getting quite far enough away for it to really make a difference.

He found himself wistful for the simplicity of Little Lamplight. So far, being an adult had failed to hold any appeal. Everything was about loss, disappointment, and failure, the never-ending need for caps and the things you had to do to get them. But this wasn’t about caps. He’d killed plenty of people before, but always for payment, for the promise of _one day_ – one day things would be better, one day he would be able to go home, one day he’d be the man, the parent, he whole-heartedly wanted to be. If he did this, it wouldn’t be for caps. It wouldn’t be for anything tangible. It would be because every ghoul he’d ever met had been terrified of this moment, of when someone had to make the call that you were gone forever and had to be destroyed.

A queasy feeling churned in MacCready’s belly. They were postponing the inevitable.

_Motherfuckingchrist._

“Heck, what are friends for if not for shooting you in the head when times get rough?” MacCready spat, shoving himself off the workbench. He took a few long strides towards the blue house, rifle bouncing on his back.

“Wait,” Piper called after him, racing to catch his elbow, stopping him. She pressed her pistol to his chest. “No need for the big gun.”

His expression pinched as he took the weapon from her. “Gee, thanks,” he hissed, acid bubbling in his voice. He turned seething eyes to the crowd. “Jesus. Look at you. Big bunch of heroes. Piper, you’re chiseled out of ice. Nick, I woulda thought that at least you would have my back – you knew him. And _you_ ,” he signaled to Danse with the barrel of Piper’s gun. He spun it and held the grip out in offering. “Really? Don’t you want to be the one that does it? Isn’t that what you get off on?”

Danse fixed him with a cold gaze. “Believe me when I say that this situation brings me no satisfaction,” he said, his tone dark and measured. He made no move to take the extended gun, a steel sculpture in his armor.

Standing as tall as he could, MacCready spat, “Then it looks like I’m tagged in.” He turned from them and marched, pistol at his side, an executioner on his way to the guillotine.

Voices broke out, whispering at his back. A shamed Valentine slid into step beside him as they made their way to the cellar. “Proud of you, kid. Looks like you’ve got more gall then the rest of us combined. Think he’d be glad to know you were the one that took care of it.”

MacCready almost told him to shove his praise up his corroded ass.

The walk was too short. They stooped to crouch at the cellar doors, pausing to listen, tattered tails from their coats pooling around their knees. It was eerily quiet inside. Valentine unlocked the bolt and took hold of the handles. MacCready pulled the slide on the pistol and nodded to him. The dilapidated synth cast the doors open.

Swinging long legs over the lip, MacCready jumped, landing squarely on packed earth. He clutched the pistol and clicked the safety off, the small sound amplified in the tiny space. Valentine climbed down the ladder, each footstep a clatter. Shadows clung to the rear of the cellar. The scents of damp earth and moldy lumber hung thickly in the stuffy air. Standing in a square of sunlight, MacCready looked to his backup. Valentine lifted his revolver, mouth in a grim line, bracing for the worst.

John remained where they had left him, kneeling on a mattress in the corner. His arms were secured overhead with a set of handcuffs around a steel pipe that protruded from the earthen wall. With his tipped chin almost touching his chest, the tricorn obscured his face. He stirred as MacCready and Valentine moved closer with measured steps. The brim tilted, and beetle-black eyes rose to fix on them.

“Heya, fellas,” John muttered, voice harsh. He struggled meekly with the cuffs. “Think you can help a guy out?”


	7. All In Favor

NICK

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 23rd, 2287

A German philosopher, a guy that eventually lost his mind – how’s that for situational irony? – once said, “ _If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you_.” For as long as Nick had known the extroverted yet intensely private John McDonough, the kid had been intent on inviting his demons to dance. It had only been a matter of time before one of them overpowered him.

To chase away the dank cellar’s gloom, Nick clicked his lighter open, exposed steel fingers still dexterous. He stooped to ignite the wick of an oil lamp on the ground, plastic hand shielding the flame from a draft riding in from the open hatch.

John was detained, wiggling, his tethered arms held above and behind his head. “Little assistance?” he asked from within gnarled features. “This is pretty damn uncomfortable.”

There was a flash, the echo of a memory, and the old John sat in the ghoul’s place, blonde hair tumbling to his shoulders, stunned disbelief in his hazel eyes as a pair of Diamond City security officers hauled him away. Just as abruptly the image was gone, revealing the irradiated husk of a former Diamond City elitist trussed to a pipe.

Scraps of empathy built, and the barrel of Nick’s pistol dipped. He caught MacCready’s eye before sliding his pistol into its holster. The boy swallowed but held firm, gun trained on the ghoul’s center mass. Nick reached out, uncuffing one of John’s hands.

The ghoul pulled the restraint from around the cement pole. “Thanks,” he said, rotating his wrist. Nick snatched the loose cuff and nimbly enclosed it around the wheel of a hefty steel safe sunk into the floor, granting him minimal, wary freedom. John’s shoulders drooped. “Oh.”

“What the fuck was that?” MacCready snapped. “I mean – what happened out there?”

Tugging weakly at his manacle, John’s gaze dropped to the earthen ground. “…did I hurt anyone?”

MacCready sighed, finally lowering his gun. “No. Although this might turn into one hell of a big fish story for Deacon. _I’m tellin’ ya_ ,” MacCready began in a mockery of Deacon’s voice. “ _That ghoul was at least twenty feet tall! Had three heads and spit fire! No, really!_ ”

Frowning, Nick crossed his arms. “You were aware?” he asked. The idea was upsetting.

John’s shoulders gave a loose roll, half-shrug half-slump. “Maybe? Not really? Was sort of like watching myself from someplace else. I was just…pissed beyond all reason. Don’t even know why. Kinda took over.”

Stepping back into the square of sunlight under the hatch, Nick called, “Hey, up there. I know you’re all crowded around. Send Curie on down.”

Whispers and scuffling. A minute passed before Curie’s face appeared in the opening, sky-blue eyes large and inquisitive. She came down and gave John the once-over with her collection of instruments – a stethoscope with a broken eartip, a thermometer with a rusted stem, and a various assortment of other time-beaten items. A penlight came out, but with the state of John’s black eyes, she couldn’t check his pupils.

Throughout all this, Nick kept up a dialogue, attempting to keep John’s spirits from sinking through the floor. “This something new?” he queried as MacCready leaned against a wall, hand hovering over the grip on his pistol.

“I just…I’m restless,” was John’s answer as Curie peered into his ears. “It keeps me up some nights. Been hard to remember things sometimes – where I am, what I was doing. I’m constantly irritated. It wears on me. Slight things, things that don’t really matter – they tip me over the edge.” Curie stuck a thermometer under his tongue.

“Things like stabbing one of your lieutenants in the street over a paltry squabble?” Nick ventured, recalling the day he and his new vault pal had first stepped through the gate at Goodneighbor. “Restless like leaving the sanctity of Goodneighbor on an uncharacteristic whim?”

“Guesh word fuckin’ travelsh…” John mumbled around the thermometer, one hand reaching into his coat, the other extended and tethered. Curie plucked the device from his mouth. “So why now?” John pondered. “It’s not like I’ve been exposed to anything different. And I certainly ain’t been isolated.” He eased a tin box from his pocket.

Nick watched him, mechanical brain churning, trying to fit all the pieces together. Then it all fell into place. He felt a rush, like electricity connecting to a bulb.

He sprang at John, slim metal hand seizing the tin of Mentats. Curie leapt out of the way. “I ain’t claiming to be an expert but I’d say that this is the culprit, you damn doofus,” he scolded, pills rattling as he shook the box. “For years, you played around with drugs. When you ran off to Goodneighbor for good, you deliberately shot up some rad-packed substance you found into a body already riddled with Chems. And then, like the idiot you are, you continued to further abuse yourself.”

“Thanks, dad,” John mocked in a dry tone. “Nice to know you’ve been looking out for me.”

Curie’s face broke into a jubilant grin. “Oh, yes! Pharmaceuticals! How silly of me not to have understood sooner!” She scrambled to pull a notebook from the satchel she’d brought down. Fist tight around a pen, she jotted quick notes in shorthand. “You see, for an extended period you have been forcing your mind into a constant state of overexertion and keeping it there, your irradiated blood pumping more and more toxic energy straight into your brain on a daily basis.”

Grilling him, Nick shook the tin of Mentats. “What are you up to? Two boxes daily? Three?”

“…four,” John answered in a hushed murmur. “Sometimes five.”

Muttering softly in French, Curie copied that information.

Nick sighed, thin, artificial lungs deflating. “Oh, John…” he tsked. “Didn’t anyone ever warn you that chems would rot your brain? Literally, in this case.”

John pinned him with a hard-eyed stare. “Come of it, Nicky. You know why I do it. Yeah, I get high. I get high so I can write for eighteen hours a day.” He tried to stand, his tethered arm jerking him back into an awkward crouch. “You think I’ve built what I have by bashing the right heads in? It’s hard and it’s tedious and everyone is too damn illiterate to understand why this is the way it has to be done. Trade agreement and legal accounts and balancing statistics. Christ, it’s just me.” John wavered for an instant before suddenly dropping to sit heavily, coattails fluttering to the ground behind him.  “No one else knows how to do these things. So, I take the ‘Tats, and chase ‘em with Jet to come back down and next day the cycle starts all over again.”

Poor John. John, who wasn’t fast or strong, couldn’t hit a barrel with a bullet even if he was in it, was too cripplingly smart for his own good. Functioning as paralegal, accountant, sheriff, and politician had left him with an unending caseload in a world where no one post-war understood these terms.

Jerking harshly at the chain the tethered him, fury mounting to storm in the ghoul’s midnight eyes. “And now I’m a damn animal. Is that it? I did this to myself, so I deserve it? Everything I am, everything I’ve done is gone? I haven’t finished anything yet.” He huffed and shook his head. “And now, as an insult – I’m back? To wait for it to happen again? That doesn’t make any damned sense. Why didn’t it stick? Why aren’t I going for your eyeballs?”

“That sure is the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” MacCready asked, scratching under his hat.

Pity kicked in. Two monstrosities on borrowed time stood in this cellar. Nick had a _one day_ of his own to look forward to, a time when his memory banks would be filled to capacity, deleting the memories of those he’d known, anything he’d done, or who he was.

_The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls..._

After tapping Curie on the arm, Nick gestured at MacCready to follow him back out. Curie slung the satchel full of notepapers and her doctor’s bag crosswise over her body. They left John to stare blankly at dirt walls.

They resurfaced to find the entire assembly gathered in Danse’s backyard. Most of them had their arms crossed or hands clasped behind their backs. Strong had even wandered back up to join them. Further away, practically in the side yard and shrouded in afternoon shadow, the paladin leaned with one hand bracing himself against the wall of his home. Curie leafed through her notebooks as Nick’s rusty voice spoke.

“So, uh, there’s been a development.” He fished in the pockets of his trench coat for a cigarette. “There was no big bang. Looks like he’s back with us for a while longer. This might start becoming a pattern, though.” Lighting up, he took a drag. “Buckle up.”

Eye stalks swiveling in surprise, Codsworth asked, “Mister Hancock has reverted to his former self?”

Cait wrinkled her nose. “What’s he gonna do – switch back and forth between bein’ fangy and not for all eternity? That’s a fat lot of relief.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a shitastic scenario that I want no part of. I mean – that’s no solution. So, question is…how do we fix an incurable ghoul?” MacCready ventured. “It’d be awesome if we had some kinda high anti-rad, cure-all serum. But we don’t. So that sucks.”

“Non non non,” Curie broke in, rearranging her notes. “This was not a proper metamorphosis. His cognitive functions are impaired. This was, um, how you say, a, a _mimicry_? Temporary. A likely outcome of what eventual circumstances might become…a, ah…”

“A sneak preview?” Deacon volunteered in his standard, calming timbre. That voice alone had almost certainly gotten him out of scrapes more than once.

“Oh, yes. Oui.”

God bless Curie and her never-ending quest for answers. Fascinated by all of them and their differences, they had all given her blood samples to keep her busy and help how they could. Nick had parted with a sliver of polymer skin. She continued to explain, her eyes full of wonder and excitement, tragedy an opportunity for discovery.

“There exists only a finite range of symptoms that result from continual exposure to an irradiated element,” Curie said in a tumble. “What he has done to himself – the initial substance Monsieur Hancock injected – It is entirely possible that these properties have compounded and become concentrated in very specific quadrants of his cerebral tissue. Is a…” She clenched a fist, searching for the word in English. “A _radiation clog_ …inside of his brain. I do believe that I may have devised such a method as to knock this obstruction free and restore function to normal capacities.” She paused to take a breath. “I will need very specific elements in order to construct the substance that is required. But this is an extremely time sensitive procedure.”

“Meaning?” Piper questioned.

“Meaning we can’t wait,” MacCready said, mouth turned down. “How long, Curie?”

“Oh. I…well…one day? Perhaps two?”

Whistling long and slow, Preston removing his hat to rub a hand over his short hair.

Not much of a buffer period. Puffing on his cigarette, Nick longed for time when he had been able to feel the calming effects of nicotine. Well, not _him_ – the real Valentine. Still, seemed like a day for addictive behaviors to come to a head. 

MacCready paced, turned, and paced again, boots crushing slim, brittle grass. He stopped short and jolted ramrod straight, his eyes bright. “Oh, holy hell. Med-Tek.”

Nick blew smoke out through his cheek. “What?”

“Med-Tek!” The kid was grinning like a maniac, eyes wide, glancing at each of them in short, eager turns. “It’s the most advanced research facility in the Commonwealth. One stop shopping for all your curative needs. I just need a, what do you call it...an escort, a convoy, a…” 

“ _Detail_?” Danse offered from his corner.

MacCready snapped his fingers. “Yes! You know – to back me up. Don’t even have to go through the city. Place is just past Covenant. It’s an easy run.” He slapped his palms together in an upward stroke for emphasis.

Sighing, Preston disputed, “No such thing as an easy run. And not worth us putting our lives on the line. Curie’s that best medic we’ve got. We need her here, working to create vaccines with guaranteed outcomes. Most of the setters in Minuteman retreats have families, kids that are sick, or old injuries that need to be treated. We can’t risk her getting hurt on some pie-in-the-sky mission.”

Nick couldn’t blame the colonel for being cautious. Hell, Sanctuary was held together by equal amounts of duct tape and dreams. Even so, the words felt calloused. Wasn’t John one of their own? Didn’t he deserve a chance at salvation, same as anyone else that wandered in?

“All right, already. Enough of this.” MacCready stamped to one side of the yard. He dragged the heel of a boot through the dirt, creating a line. “Look, I know that this goes against what some of us feel is right. Hell, it sure does for me. Never thought I’d be an advocator for some ghoul. But it’s not just some ghoul we’re talking about – it’s Hancock. One of our own. This is about being downright ethical in a world that isn’t fair. Helping people, that’s what we do right? Why we were all brought here? To make a difference? So help me do this.”

Nick gave a tight-lipped smile. All in all, that MacCready was a decent kid. He stamped his cigarette out and moved to stand beside him, segmented metal fingers uncurling to squeeze the merc’s shoulder supportively.

After making a short, disgusted sound, Deacon meandered to the opposite side of the yard. Facing them, he crossed his arms.

MacCready sniffed. “Why am I not surprised?”

Wrapping her arms around her satchel, Curie moved to stand with on Nick’s other side. Deacon’s mouth tightened.

Strong took several weighty steps towards the spy. “Why humans upset? Should not interfere. Should be proud. Friend will be stronger!”

“We’re not talking about saving a life,” said Piper. “We’re talking about buying time. That’s not the same thing.” She moved to join Deacon’s group. Nick glared at her.

Codsworth’s torso rotated. He propelled a few feet in either direction, floating and reversing, before coming to a stop amongst Nick’s cluster.

Cait and Preston looked to each other. They made their way to stand on either side of Piper.

It was four versus five.

The paladin stayed put, brow so furrowed that his face looked closed-off.

“Oh, come on!” MacCready shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “You know he’d fight for you!” he exclaimed to his opposition.

“I’m sorry, MacCready,” Preston said. “We’re not in favor. Risking lives for a ghoul that’s likely to have already turned by the time you get what you need and come back – that really is suicide.”

Following a sharp inhale, Danse appeared to gather himself. He removed his hand from the wall and took several vibrating steps nearer to them. “I have my suspicions about this proposal. But you’re right, MacCready – we should be fighting for the greater good. That includes risk, pushing beyond personal preferences, and maintaining what morality we can. Curie –” Danse brought stern eyes to hers “– can you assure me that your remedy will work?”

“If I am to fail at procuring the proper compounds or have somehow miscalculated the amounts and procedures necessary, I will not succeed. He will suffer a final lapse that will become irreversible. This is the best and only option available.” 

Danse was quiet for time, contemplative. Then he gave a single, curt nod. “We go.”

Five versus five. Tied.

MacCready cocked his head. “Wait – seriously?”

“Yes. Get what you need. We head out in ten. MacCready, you’ll be on point. I trust you know where you’re going.”

MacCready jerked a nod. He, Danse, and Curie all broke away, dispersing in separate directions to rather provisions.

Through narrowed yellow optics, Nick glowered at the paladin as he passed. “How uncommonly big of you.” Danse gave him a firm glance, but kept walking.

Piper materialized at Nick’s side, glowering at him, pinching him in the arm – not that he felt more than pressure. “What was that look for? You’re just as much to blame for this as I am,” she whispered defensively.

His coolant boiled. It was _her_ article that ruined a young John McDonough, not his investigation. And how dare she bring that up _now_. “It was a bad call,” he crustily responded. “I followed the trail that _you_ sent me on. No way to predict just how big the blowback would be. We both uncover secrets, Piper. But, somehow, I’ve made a business of keeping mine. And I plan on making reparations. That’s why I’m going with them.”


	8. How It All Ends

PIPER

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 23rd, 2287

Piper crouched behind a bramble, obscured by lengthy afternoon shadows. Edging around a corner, she peered into the yard.

In the shade of the paladin’s house, Cait sat atop the cellar doors flicking the lid of her lighter open and closed, a slight breeze tousling her auburn hair. A gun was balanced on her knees. Piper halted her approach when she saw the weapon. A shotgun. The perfect choice to down a feral flailing in an enclosed space.

Grimacing, Piper pushed herself up from her squat and shook out her legs to expel the soreness from her muscles. She had hoped for Codsworth to be standing guard, maybe Jun Long or even Strong – someone she could easily trick into looking the other way while she slid into the cellar.

The old detective had been right – he usually was – and his departing comments had cut deep into Piper’s core. Perhaps she should feel bad, and in weak moments, she certainly did. She carried a responsibility, a blame for events that had transpired leading up to the election of 2282. _“John McDonough!”_ she remembered shouting, fingers working fast to snap photo after candid photo, building a dossier on the enigmatic younger brother of one of the candidates. She hadn’t intended to single him out, just following a tip.

So many casualties had been left in the wake of that vote that it was easy to overlook some of them. Even now, years later, she didn’t have all the information. The key, the person who had been in the center of it all, was contained in that cellar.     

As Piper pondered on how best to get inside, Cait placed the shotgun atop dead grass, close enough to grab should the need arise, and lit a cigarette.

Ploy forfeit, Piper stepped from the bushes, waving her notepad in greeting. “Hey there, Cait…So, uh, how’s it goin’ down there?”

“Quiet as houses,” Cait quipped, flipping her lighter closed. “If houses got rowdy.”

Piper nodded a bit longer than necessary. “Any chance of me just sliding on in there?”

Squinting up, Cait puffed her cigarette, studying Piper in a suspicious manner. “That’s a hell of a cabbage idea.”

“What’s a cabbage?”

Shrugging, Cait flicked ash from her cigarette. “Fucked if I know. It’s just a sayin’.”

The pause that followed took painfully long to pass. Cait smoked while continuing to stare. Piper drummed fingers on her notepad.

Breaking first, Cait stated, “Ain’t supposed to let no one in.”

“Aw, c’mon. Can’t you just, ya know, give me a win?” Piper raised her notepad. “It’s for the press!”

“Bollocks to the bloody press.” Cait went back to smoking.

Switching tactics, Piper appealed, “Please, Cait? Let me do my thing. We girls gotta stick together.” She leaned down to give Cait a playful punch to the shoulder and instantly regretted it when she was given a curdled look.

Cait took her time blowing a long steam of smoke. “What exactly you hopin’ to accomplish in there?”

Clutching her notepad to her chest, Piper shuffled her feet. “Fact checking,” she divulged. “I, um, mighta gotten a few things wrong in a previous piece.”

Cait sighed dramatically, and loudly, tossing her head back. Her face tipped in Piper’s direction. “You packin’?”

Piper exposed the grip of a handgun at her hip.

“Then it’s your funeral, luv.” Cait pursed her lips around her cigarette and stood. She brushed her hands against one another and bent to slide her fingers through the handles of the cellar door, heaving it open for Piper to enter. Piper took careful steps down the ladder as Cait sealed the doors above her with an ominous-sounding clang.

A single oil lamp cast enough light to see by. John had drawn himself into a corner of a mattress that had seen better decades, knees to his chest, one arm around his legs, the other extending towards a safe and tethered there. He was twisting his bound hand within the manacle, towing his arm back towards him, the chain taut. If he pulled on his restraint with any more vigor, the cuff would slide the wasted flesh from his bones. Wavering light from the lamp made his frayed coat appear orange. His hat tilted at such an angle that his face was obscured. She was unsure if he knew she was there.

“You’ve got some brass balls, Piper.”

Yup. He knew.

“Curie stopped in,” John mentioned, not bothering to face her. “Told me I’ve got something akin to an irritated aneurysm,” he stated, the fact cold in his voice. “It’s leaking and pretty soon, I won’t be me anymore.” He gave a bewildered snort. “Strange – out of all the things that keep me up at night, dyin’ ain’t ever been one of them.”

Piper gulped her nerves and took a seat atop a wooden crate at the foot of the mattress. Pulling a pencil from behind her ear, she searched his face for any hint of recollection. In the right light, she might have been able to trace the line of the jaw, maybe the cheekbones. But that look of voluntary distain – that she recognized instantly. “I know,” she confided, watching for his reaction.

“Congrats. When you dance on my grave, try to keep in rhythm, would ya?”

“No, you jerk. Not about your brain.” Shifting a little closer, Piper revealed, “I know that it’s you. That you used to be John McDonough. And I want to write your story.”

The hat slanted in the opposite direction as John’s neck twisted and he brought dilated, accusatory eyes to meet hers. “You’re makin’ it a habit to pen about my downfall. Weird how _freedom of the press_ translates into _free-range slander_.” The grimace he gave made his ugly face warp. “Ya know, no matter what void of debauchery I plunged myself into, I always made it a point to not drag anyone else down with me. Points for me, not for you.”

The lamp chose that moment to go out, plunging them into darkness. Piper jolted in surprise before brandishing her lighter to reignite it, groping in the dark until her hand found the glass globe. Renewed, the tiny fame flickered, swelled, and filled the cellar with amber light once more.

Resuming her seat, Piper studied John’s hands to avoid his scowl. Rings of various makes and metals adorned every finger but his thumbs. One wasn’t a ring at all, just a hex nut. “Why the assortment?” she asked, pointing at his fingers.

“Fine,” he huffed. “I can play this.” He sat up straighter, leaned in and held up his free hand. “For those swept up in my wake.” He raised a withered fingertip, one by one, as he named them. “My mother, my father, the baby, Stacia” – the bound hand did the same – “Mallory, Garrett, West, _Eliza_.” He practically spat the last name.

Piper’s cheeks burned, and she dropped her head. Too clearly, the remembered the whistling sound the metal slugger had made before it connected, and the crunch of split bone that followed. She raised her head. John refused to meet her eyes. “Oh, geez. John, I – ”

He scooted back on the mattress, putting space between them. “Stow it. Plenty of people can share that blame. But you’re the one that lit the match.”

Guilt twisted in her gut. It was her mistake. The one piece she had regretting writing. She had no way to know that she would cause an avalanche that Diamond City may never recover from. And now here they were, instigator and victim.

A storm of conflicting emotions rumbled across his face. He appeared to border dangerously on the verge of tears before snapping, “I do all of it alone, picking up the pieces that everyone drops so fucking casually. Making things right, making things _safe_. This ain’t who I am. This” – he jangled his chain – “this is somebody else.” He sucked a ragged breath. “I am too smart and too damn ambitious to be taken down this way. Like an animal. Like a…freak. Like anything that I’ve done means fuck-all. I ain’t done yet.”

The knot drew tighter in Piper’s stomach. He still fixedly observed the floor rather than her, his face cast in shades of misery. He laughed, dry and dour. “When it finally happens for good,” he asked, “do you think I’ll glow?” He glanced upwards, as if looking through the ceiling and up into the sky. “Maybe this is my prize, what my entire life has led up to. Maybe this is how it all ends. Maybe it’d change everything. Everybody loves a martyr. Maybe this’ll be the kick people need to get their heads out of their asses and quit fighting each other over petty bullshit. The whole Commonwealth unified over loss, layin’ down arms. Fuck, if that’s what it takes, I’m cool with it.”

Piper glanced down, pen and closed notepad still in her hand. “Did Curie tell you about the plan?”

He responded with silence, dropping his head to stare into a patch of darkness in a far corner.

“She and Valentine headed out with Mac to find you a remedy.” She smiled and tried leaning into his field of view. “Rust Buckets McGee is going with them, so at least they’ll have a tank on their side.”

Hearing this, John sat a fraction taller, the fingers on his free hand knotting in his pant leg. “He went?” the ghoul asked in a soft voice that sounded wet.

“I know, right? Shows how little he trusts anyone else to do anything.”

His chest barely rose or fell. “That was stupid. They shouldn’t have gone.”

“What?” Piper snapped her head into a back, almost losing her cap. She couldn’t have imagined that John himself would have been on the side choosing _no_. “You aching to be a feral that bad?”

He shook his head, eyes unfocused, seeing something else some _where_ else. “The four of them. Shit. I ain’t worth it. If anything happens…No one’s ever been able to stop the change from coming. If they die for nothing –”

Stunning her, John had summed up her thoughts on the matter perfectly. Still, it would be rude to steal hope out from under him. She at least owed him a fleeting moment of optimism. “Well, no one’s ever had Curie on their side. Fixing folks’ ailments – that’s kinda her job. What she was, ya know, built for. If anybody is gonna sort this out, it’s her.”

Bottomless black eyes found hers. “And if not?”

She swallowed. “We’re all armed.”

He nodded, seeming to accept the odds. “Good call.” Scratching under his hat, he asked, “If it happens before they get back…can you get rid of the body? Don’t want them to have to remember how I looked as a –”

“Okay,” she answered quickly. Disposal was a small request. If that was all she had to offer him, yeah, she could arrange for that.

Shrinking away, John curled into a patriotic ball, free hand twining in the tail of his flag sash. She tried to say something else. Her mouth opened and closed, words refusing to form. What could she offer? False hope? Lies? Penance? Where to draw the line between John McDonough and John Hancock? Where did one end and the other begin? If this was the end for him, had she killed him once, or twice?

Piper felt as if she might throw up or cry. Leaving him where he was, she crossed back to the ladder. She took a few steps up and pounded on the doors. “I’m done,” she called out to Cait manning the door. “I need out.”

She climbed out, freeing herself from the confines a small space saturated with too many emotions and bad memories. The world felt huge and bright outside of the musty prison. Piper gulped greedy mouthfuls of fresh air.

Slamming the cellar doors closed, Cait asked, “Ya find what you were after?”

Piper just shook her head, in no mood to make words.

Damnit. _Words_. Her whole life revolved around words. They had the power to change minds, right wrongs, or condemn innocents. There was more to journalism that just writing stories. Piper wished she’d known this five years prior. She traveled towards home, head full, the coral sunset a dull backdrop beyond her dreary reflections.

At the mouth of the development, a familiar figure in a long colonial duster strode back and forth between the tall stone blockades, keeping watch by the bridge. The laser musket in his hands hummed, ready and charged.

Managing a feeble smile, Piper approached, asking, “Anything to report, Colonel?”

Preston turned in her direction. “No, ma’am. All’s quiet,” he answered in crisp responses. “Seems like we may have fulfilled our upheaval quota for today.”

“Tell me about it.” Stopping in the street, Piper shook a cigarette free from her pack. She offered the pack to Preston, but he declined. Lighting her smoke, she took a deep drag. Her buzzing nerves calmed slightly. “It’s not as if I thought a life outside of Diamond City would be cake, but…there are some hard decisions to be made out here. Right and wrong sometimes gets a little fuzzy.”

“And sometimes decisions make themselves,” Preston countered, giving her a steady look. “This is a Minuteman location. I’m responsible for it when the general’s away. The safely of the people must come first. No exceptions.” He nodded to the other side of the bridge. The very tip of the Red Rocket missile could be seen over a ridge. “We’re already gambling on one monster in our midst. Can we really risk another?”

Piper held smoke in her lungs while she thought. Blue had a habit of doing thigs he probably shouldn’t – rescuing Strong, sparing Pickman, enlisting in the Brotherhood, going into the Glowing Sea alone, and now, leaving them to deal with John’s turn. Not that it was Blue’s fault, but his timing was terrible. She gave a long exhale, sending white fumes to curl into a twilight sky.

Perhaps taking her silence for disagreement, Preston babbled, “Look, I don’t have anything against ghouls. They scrape by same as the rest of us. Sometimes even better. You hear about that settlement up north run by ghouls? But a feral…c’mon now. Ain’t a ghoul alive that’ll tell you there’s a way back from that.”

Strengthening a more genuine smile, Piper clapped him on the shoulder and headed into her house. She ducked into her converted kitchen office and sat down on a split-seamed rolling chair. With the low-burning cigarette clamped between her lips, she lit the lantern on the desk. She slid a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter and set the carriage. Thinking, her face screwed up in thought. Burned down to the filter, she ground the cigarette out in the nearest ashtray.   

She sat there, taunted by the blank page. Unsure of where to start, she stared at it, waiting for inspiration. A few scattered stars flickered into existence, visible through gaps in the drywall. Instead of witty phases and engaging sentences, her brain gifted her with memories.

Hours later, she blew out the lantern and went to bed.

The page remained blank.


	9. Long Road Ahead

CURIE

Medford, MA

November 23rd, 2287

The sun dipped over the western mountain range as Curie hopped a fallen log, caressing cracked bark with gentle fingertips. What a glorious afternoon. She smelled flora and the crispness of fall in the air, tinged with traces of scorched ozone – life cut with the reminder of death, a balance. Her experience in the wasteland was nominal. Most of her time spent in the field with Monsieur Nate had been from within a floating, metal chassis.

Since receiving her new body, he had insisted that she recuperate within the safe confines of Sanctuary. That decision held little regret – the settlement was busy and full, providing her with ongoing mental stimulation and the time to familiarize herself with a humanoid body. Her greatest supporter had been the inexplicable Deacon, spending more time with her then anyone else, ensuring that her needs were met and that she was, in fact, happy with her new life. Something inside warmed when she through of him, although her stomach flipped a little at his decision to stand against searching for a cure.

Curie frequently paused to kneel and clumsily pull interesting-looking mushrooms – perhaps they carried medicinal properties – growing in clusters by the roadside, as she went. An olive-green messenger bag hung crosswise from her shoulder to her hip, bouncing a little with each step, foraged mushrooms inside. The satchel was a bit worse-for-wear with aged fabric peeling at the seams. It was packed with notes held together by wide spiral binding, the pages time-yellowed and curling. A few grenades were tucked into a side pocket of her bag, easy enough to loop a finger through the pin and lob in an emergency. Folders, loose parchment and pencils made up the rest of her gear. She patted the bag reassuringly.

The trio accompanying her created an odd team. The paladin, in his towering armor, was a reminder of the terrifying might the Brotherhood of Steel could impose on the entire Commonwealth should the mode strike. Valentine, with his peeling plastic skin, was already more human than she was, complete with memories, a history and career, his patience and malice-free demeanor time-tested. Although young, MacCready kept his head in tough situations, his statements blunt but honest.

They had taken a sensible, northern route past Tenpines, swinging south at Zimonja to cut through the wasteland to Medford, almost losing the trail a few times where it blended into the wilderness. There was abnormally little action to record. A lone raider. A few bugs.

The paladin held the rear of their small group, walking backwards, scanning the horizon for any disturbances. His laser rifle looked minuscule in his shielded hands. The golden glow of sunset made his armor appear as if it had been forged in bronze. With his face hidden behind the bulky helmet, he looked rather like a Great War statue. “Anything?” he called, voice sounding hollow and soulless through the modulator.

MacCready walked in front, leading the way with a bolt-action sniper rifle held before him. The barrel of a second rifle poked out from an over-the-shoulder duffle bag. “Just more nothing.”

They followed the trail. Valentine split his time between smoking and giving her curious glances. At the paladin’s insistence, Curie had been placed under the detective’s care, at the ready should she require assistance. In case of an ambush, she was the least experienced among them, and operating the mechanics of a firearm were too much for the current state of her hands. Still fine-tuning her motor skills, she didn’t trust herself with a gun yet, a concern that others had shared. Curie felt a flicker of embarrassment at being the weakest of them. She could make rough grabs at things and clutch objects in her fist – she lived in constant fear of tearing important papers – but the true test of her abilities would be at a chemistry station or within the Med-Tek laboratory. If she botched the manufacture of this remedy, she wasn’t certain how she would be able live with the shame. It was her function to cure ailments, the reason she’d been built.

“So, how’d you find out about this place?” Valentine asked MacCready, starting in on another cigarette.  

“Just, ya know, around,” MacCready said without turning. “I mean, heck, the name is stamped on practically every pre-war chem label you can find.”

Curie recalled a number of articles downloaded to her initial operating systems. “Med-Tek was a large, pre-war medical-pharmaceutical company,” she shared. “It was most commonly recognized for creating drugs such as Mentats and Fixer. Additional laboratories and research facilities are scattered throughout the wasteland. They sponsored a great many military veteran halls and post-war exhibitions.”

“God bless America,” Valentine huffed around his smoke. “Wars – they’re always good for business.”

“And an ongoing price the Commonwealth needs to pay for liberty,” the paladin bit. “Pick up the pace.”

The group hustled faster, wary of displeasing the hulking solider. In the violet hue of dusk, their woodland trail met up with the remnants of a paved road. They skirted close to a hospital and a subway station, former hubs that served to support a larger medical community in the area. Curie pulled a page from her satchel and made a note of the location. She nudged through a few folders to stuff the note in its proper file.

“Hold,” the paladin called. They stopped. “We made good time. Well done. Take ten minutes to rest.”

Curie was glad to hear this. Her feet hurt; wearing shoes was unpleasant. She watched MacCready flex fingers that had spent the afternoon gripping a rifle. But he was smiling. “What’d I say? No problems, right?” he said jauntily.

The tell-tale beeping of a mutant suicide bomb ruptured the scene.

Slumping, MacCready lamented, “Oh. That darned sound.” Heads turned in all directions, trying to pinpoint the noise. No longer hidden in hospital shadows, three mutants ambled into view, accompanied by a baying hound. The paladin snapped his weapon to position and fired several shots in rapid succession, red beams flashing. Feeling a cold rush of fright tickling her insides, Curie edged towards Valentine as he brandished his pistol.

MacCready whipped his rifle out of his pack and steadied it. “I guess we’re doing this.” He fired a single round before the paladin ushered him away.

“Go! Get to safety! I’ll handle these freaks.”

“Are you out of your mind?” MacCready pulled the scope away from his eye. “Take the damn back up!”

“Negative,” the paladin shouted over his shoulder. “Get to higher ground! I’ll keep the fight down here!” Raising his weapon back to his line of sight, he jogged to intercept the mutants with steps that jolted his armor, the metal generating red sparks where his feet ground against the asphalt.

“Have fun watching your own ass!” MacCready yelled, taking Curie’s arm. “Dang it,” he grumbled, then called, “I mean, _rear_!” They sprinted towards a nearby parking structure, Valentine a step behind.

“There you are,” a flat, mechanical voice droned. Two surprise skeletal synths sprang out of the station entrance between them and the lot. MacCready leapt back, pulling Curie with him and almost out of her shoes. Valentine shouldered past them, raising his pistol.

“Apropos,” he growled. “These clowns are mine. Get outta here!”

MacCready and Curie made a frantic run for the garage. An explosion further back in the road sent them rocking forward. The ground shook and Curie lost her vision for a moment. The suicider had burst. They stumbled away from the blast, letting fear propel them faster. As they made it to the open space of the garage’s entry pavilion, feral ghouls came spilling from darkened eaves and around corners.

 “Aw, man,” MacCready protested. “Ferals – the worst kind of surprise.” He spun her around and shoved her deeper into the parking structure. “Go!” he shouted as her. “Get to the roof!” He dropped his duffle at his feet and took a stance at the garage entrance. He pulled a secondary rifle out, one with a magazine attachment and let loose a barrage of bullets. The projectiles ripped into decimated flesh, shredding it. Even in the absence of various limbs, the ferals threw themselves at him, falling into his line of fire.

Whisking herself away, Curie heard a staccato of shots being fired below as she ascended to a higher level. Feet flying, her satchel bouncing against her hip, she tore around corner after corner, climbing higher with each turn. The darkness deepened before exploding back into twilight as she found herself on the roof of the parking lot. She spun in a circle, heart hammering her ribcage.

There was a crash and the structure shook beneath her feet. Curie ran to the source of the sound, looking down from the ledge over waist-high steel railing. Below her, the paladin shoved his mass away from the building, leaving an armor-sized dent in the concrete. The hound was on him instantly, attempting to crush his helmet with its jagged teeth. He rolled with the beast, grabbing it by the jaws, prying the gnashing teeth apart, armored strength extending the jawbones until the skull split with a wet crunch. Tossing the slack animal aside, he strode to a long-rusted fender discarded in the road. In metal-encased hands, he picked it up and swung it, knocking a rapidly approaching mutant in the head with a meaty _fwap_. The connecting impact threw the mutant to one side.

A series of growling snarls rose in volume and proximity. Curie whirled, facing the ramp she had taken up the roof. She stepped back, her legs touching the railing. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her first instinct was to panic, to scream and call for help. But all her party was occupied with their own struggles. Forcing a slow breath out, she scrambled to collect her wits.

She stood her ground as several rotted bodies swarmed the roof, traveling towards her at full speed, clawed fingers slashing. Her hand dropped to the satchel pocket with the grenades. In a flash of inspiration, she grabbed the bag itself. As the first hissing feral reached her, she ducked and swung her full satchel at it. The bag hit it in the side and it went whirling over the side of the railing to splatter on the concrete below. She did the same with another one. The third and final one met its end when she dropped her bag and sank fingernails into the putrefied skin of its head, dancing with it for a moment before spinning it off to join the other two.

She paused, gasping, nerves on fire, waiting for more gangrenous bodies to come flailing at her. The gelatinous goo scraped from the last feral’s scalp felt slippery between her fingers and stank of rot as she inquisitively brought her hands to her nose. She flicked her coated fingers and strained to hear any additional carnage. Gunfire had ceased. Her steps were light as she wandered back to the first level. “Monsieur MacCready?” she called, cautious, analyzing shadows.

“Down here. Somewhere.”

Near the entrance, two arms swathed in different fabrics waved at her from under a pile of rotted bodies. She heard him struggling to heft the of them weight off. Rushing to his aid, she peeled dead ferals away from him. Freed, she offered him a hand. He took it, but the slick gore on her fingers caused him to lose his grasp and fall backwards. Propped up on a mound of his victims, he heaved a sigh. “I feel like the piñata at a feral-party.” He made a face, his hands swiftly checking himself for injuries. “Though, luckily, seems like I still have all my innards.” Carefully maneuvering to his feet, he wiped dark, syrupy blood from his pants. He retrieved his fallen rifles and went back to his duffle bag, squatting to dig around inside.

Curie frowned, wiping her gory hands on her pants. “I highly doubt you have experienced evisceration. Had you sustained an injury that severe, the shock would have rendered you immobile. The agony would be quite unbearable.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll avoid that.”

The paladin appeared from around a corner of the building, rifle in one hand, helmet under his arm. His armor’s plating was missing from one arm and loose on both legs. Valentine was with him. They filed into the first level of the parking lot, the paladin keeping a cautious eye on the entrance.

“Now, that’s what I call an unholy trifecta,” Valentine muttered, holding one side of his trench coat open, poking slender fingers into holes in his button-down. “Muties, ferals _and_ robots.”

Curie gasped. “Monsieur Valentine!” She ran to him, frightened by the prospect of his injuries. She was no mechanic. Coolant dripped in steady droplets between his Oxfords. She pried the buttons on his shirt open and yanked the fabric apart.

“Hey, now,” Valentine muttered, pulling away. “At least buy me dinner first.” With the faux skin of his belly exposed, Curie spotted neat holes burned though the polymer. “Easy, sweetheart,” he reassured her. “It looks worse than it is. Not like I’m gonna bleed out. And the ladies like a man with scars, ain’t I right?”

“I cannot imagine how anyone would find a mistreated injury appealing,” she said, before catching sight of the paladin’s scarred face. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but looking at him made her feel as through cavalier mistakes had been made with his care. Quickly diverting her attention, she poked experimentally at the old synth’s wounds. A quick soldering would staunch the flow of coolant. “Given fine enough wire, I could sew these holes closed,” she offered. “It would be good practice for me.”

As if unconcerned, Valentine just shrugged. “Knock yourself out, doll. It’s not as if this old body is on display.”

MacCready let out an inhuman squall. Curie gave him a quick glance, and found him still rummaging through his duffle bag.

Looking up from his injuries, Valentine cocked his head. “You okay there, partner? You sound like a molerat’s got you by the jewels.”

“ _Damn_. _Shucks_ ,” MacCready swore. “I’d say that was my favorite ammo, but that was my only ammo.”

Whirling, the paladin demanded, “How on Earth are you out?”

“They took everything I had! Cleaned me out! Look!” MacCready held up the bandoliers that were normally secured around his body. The belts had been slashed and the ammunition lost in the stack of dead ferals. Even his hat was without its accoutrements. “Nobody warned me about a pre-slaughter. And it’s, uh, easy to blow through ammo when you don’t have to load each round.” His cheeks darkened as he stuffed his rifles back in the bag.

As Curie picked gummy matter out from under her nails, the paladin mumbled something that sounded like, “Moronic amateur.”

“Not quite the _easy run_ you toted earlier,” Valentine grumbled, rebuttoning his shirt.

The paladin stood straighter, jaw clenching. “I strongly suggest that we get out of town and make camp for the night. Now. We’re unprepared for another assault.” A steely authority had taken root in his voice, the words spoken too tersely. “There’s no telling what we’ll find in the Med-Tek facility. We need to resupply and take stock.”

“Oui. An excellent suggestion,” Curie agreed. “You should allow me to examine each of you in detail.” In addition to Valentine’s injuries, the paladin had obviously taken damage, the state of his suit proved that. And it was likely that MacCready had suffered superficial wounds such as scratches and bites, injuries that were known to quickly turn the rad-weakened tissue necrotic.

“There’s a settlement nearby,” MacCready said, shouldering the mostly empty bag. “I mean, you know – settlement, safehouse, whatever.”

“Can you lead us there?” the paladin asked, donning his helmet.

MacCready rolled his eyes. “Leading is apparently my thing today.” He turned back towards the road withValentine at his heels.

Evening had fallen, and the purples of nightfall had given way to deep blues. Curie went to follow, pausing to look back at the paladin. She caught him giving a lingering glace to a building that read _Med-Tek_ on the marquee. Creeping up, she knocked on his armored back. He stared down at her, Curie’s own reflection looking back at her in his visor. “Come, Monsieur,” she said, taking his big, metal hand in both of hers, pulling him. With a start, he yanked his hand away, causing her to stumble. Splayed, metal feet caused the earth the tremble as he stomped by her to follow the others.

A sinister wasteland full of teeth, claws and uncertainty pressed at her back as she ran to catch up.


	10. Here We Go

MACCREADY

Taffington Boathouse, MA

November 23rd, 2287

“Man, talk about highway robbery,” MacCready muttered, jamming the last box of ammunition into his duffle. The provisioner and her fat brahmin waddled northwards over the starlit road on their way to Country Crossing. He knew the trade routes well; he’d been employed as a caravaneer often enough to memorize them.

MacCready passed a hastily patched Valentine, who gave him a nod as he patrolled the perimeter of Taffington. A surly-faced Danse, the best mechanic among them, had worked the blowtorch that sealed the synth’s coolant leak. A quick patch-up by Curie and he was good to go. MacCready was happy to have an affiliate, synth or not, that required no sleep, as it allowed that rest of them to split into separate tasks. Curie was fine-tuning plans while Danse had taken up shop on the first floor of the house to attend to his armor.

MacCready met back with Curie in the boathouse. Moonlight had broken through the woven branches of twisting trees above, sending white lights to dapple through the fractured panes of glass set into the boathouse ceiling and onto the water below. It was a tranquil night; the water beneath the boathouse workshop was calm. A generator chugged softly outside, its wire snaking in through a smashed window to power a bright set of work lights. “Lemme tell you,” he groused, dropping his bag in a corner. “The idea of wasting caps on the boss’s own supplies lines feels like an unwarranted kick to the crotch.”

“I have finished the schematics,” Curie said, ignoring his gripe, staring down at the surface of a workshop table. She waved for him to join her. “Come and see.”

Sidling up, he peered over her shoulder. She had taped several pieces of paper together to make a large diagram. The drawing was crude, the lines jagged and the words smeared. Curie was clumsy with anything that required…well, hands. That secret was out. She was doing well enough, MacCready supposed, considering that she wasn’t a real person, or real synth even, just an updated version of Codsworth with new hardware.

He studied the rough design of her creation. The contraption seemed simple enough to build. “All right,” he nodded. “I can handle that.”

“Are you certain?”

“Confident as rads making you barf.” He reached over her to pull tools from an overhead cabinet. “Shouldn’t take too long with all the crap the boss stores in every spare drawer he finds.” MacCready’s employer was notorious for dropping shipments of junk at each settlement under his protection. Racks of desk fans, telephones and loose components filled an entire wall of the boathouse. “Go upstairs and call it a night,” he told her, tilting his head towards the two-story house attached to the location. “We’re gonna need your brain parts in top shape tomorrow.”

She stifled a yawn. “Oui. Yes. Adjusting to circadian rhythms has been quite the experience.” She bid him goodnight as he pulled a length of rusted pipe from a shelf. Once the necessary items were collected he returned to the workbench. He hefted a hammer and brought it down, trying to straighten the pipe. Curie’s instructions would relatively easy to follow, despite her sloppy scrawl. MacCready worked in silence for a while, the simple task of crafting allowing his mind to wander.

He was happy to have a mission take him out of Sanctuary. Too many Minutemen swung through at all hours. Any one of them might recognize him from his time as a Gunner. That could be catastrophic for his situation. A Minuteman trial – oh, they’d have one, no doubt, lawmen holding themselves in high regard – would stall MacCready’s plans indefinitely. Had Nate approached him in The Third Rail leading with, _Hi, you might know me as the General_ , MacCready would have turned him down flat and fled Goodneighbor entirely. Instead, he’d accepted payment and made a pact. Stupid honor.

And guilt. That godda– _gosh darn_ guilt that had become a second shadow that, along with his stalled watch, reminded him of his ignorance regarding the passage of time. Duncan didn’t care about his problems, his hang-ups with the Minutemen or his troubles with the Gunners. His son was oblivious to all of it, just needing one thing – a single vial of medicine.

John’s feral descent had become a beacon of hope for MacCready. Finally, an opportunity to get into Med-Tek with, of all people, a full-on Brotherhood officer, a hacker, and a scientist. He couldn’t have designed a more perfect lineup. In one fell swoop, he could repay John for harboring him, save Duncan, and once he repaid Nate, get the hell – _heck_ out town.

Nearing the end of his build, MacCready focused on his creation. He delivered a final blow with the hammer. The pipe was as straight as it was going to get. The affixed gauge wiggled, threatening to come free. MacCready made a face of annoyance and wiped at his brow with a dirty sleeve. Glue took forever to dry. Best that he leave the rest of construction for morning.

He set the hammer down and rolled his bruised shoulder, an occupational hazard when relying on a rifle. The side door to the house creaked twice, opening and closing, and was followed by the twang of the boathouse screen door being pulled ajar. MacCready cast a glance over his shoulder. Danse, who had exited his armor to work on it, was clad only in his orange interface suit. His hood was off and, holy smokes, did he have a thick head of hair; it stuck straight up in the front. He was grasping a bottle of vodka by the neck, procured from somewhere in the house.

“What is that god-awful thing?” the paladin asked, the words thick, gesturing at MacCready’s work with the bottle as he wandered out of the dark into the gleam of the work lights, his normally stiff gait loosened by the addition of alcohol.

Danse had caught him assembling a rudimentary-looking rifle with a pressurized release, a gauge, a scope, and a long, wide pipe barrel. Ballistic ammo casings with empty barrels were stacked next to it. It looked cheap and stupid compared to his standard bolt-action and automatic rifles, which sat, cleaned, in his duffle on the floor. MacCready easily lifted the new rifle with one hand. It was lightweight and mostly oxidized. “I call it _Oh Shit, Just in Case_.” He smirked at the title. “Maybe I should patent it? Could be my big ticket. Rake in the caps.” Setting the rifle down, he added, “Curie’s idea. Just in case things go south in a big way.”

The paladin nodded, but his eyes were staring into the flat waters beneath the boathouse. He took a swig from the bottle. Frowning, MacCready pondered at what realization had led the paladin’s usual stoic nature to come unglued. Something had changed, though Danse wouldn’t be the first solider to experience trouble with down-time. Gunners were at their most cruel when waiting for commands.

MacCready stooped to take a box of .308 caliber bullets from his bag. He pried the lid open and asked Danse, “Why don’t you get some shut eye? We’re gonna need you to soak up damage for us tomorrow.” He slipped a pair of bullets into the brim of his hat, one for himself, the second out of habit.

“It’s unlikely that I will sleep tonight,” said Danse. “Besides, I’ll return to finishing my armor repairs shortly.”

Standing, MacCready wiped his hands on a mostly-clean cloth and turned to face the paladin. “I have to ask the obvious – why did you agree to help? I’m surprised that you didn’t crack my mayor’s head open the moment he growled at you.”

Danse swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing behind his neckbeard. He took another slug from the bottle before answering. “I realize that my inaction was a foolish thing. I…may have made an error by supporting this venture.”

Tossing the rag onto the workbench, MacCready snorted. “Well, color me surprised. _Not_.” He fearlessly whirled to face the tall solider. “High holy hell, Danse,” he snapped. “Have you ever given half a damn about anyone in your whole entire life?”

Danse’s dark eyes focused and held sudden thunder. The bright bulbs of the worklights emphasized each pinkish scar that marred his face. “My personal life is none of your concern,” his deep voice rumbled. “Nor is it acceptable for people like you to comment on it.”

“ _People like me?_ ” MacCredy repeated. His hand closed over the hammer’s handle, eager to crush something, anything, even the paladin’s neck. “Ok, yeah. I’ll love hearing this,” he acerbically snarled.

“People like you,” Danse drunkenly continued, pointed at MacCready with the bottom of his bottle. “Killers. Mindless mercenaries. Those will little regard of who they hurt or what actions they set in play.”

MacCready narrowed his eyes. “Did you just describe me, or yourself? As someone on the outside looking in, seems like the Brotherhood set you up to be just the same. As one pawn to another, I’d say that people who live in glass airships shouldn’t fire bullets.” As Danse fumed, MacCready rolled on, smacking the head of the hammer into one palm. “See, I’m from the Capital. I remember when you guys didn’t suck, when kids – kids like me – used to look up to some guy in armor like he was a Hubris Comics hero there to save the day. But now –” MacCready shook his head, disgusted “– now it's fifty-fifty as to whether or not we’ll be expected to hand over our caps, crops, or friends. And I’m probably being really generous with that ratio. You might as well take Gunners into your ranks – they’re used to following the same kinda orders.”

Fury sparked, Danse reeled back and hurled the bottle. With a reflex that would have made a cat proud, MacCready swung the hammer, connecting with the bottle mid-air, smashing it. Glass and alcohol went flying in all directions. The hammer tumbled head over handle before making a feeble splash in the open water of the boathouse floor and sinking.

“Hoo!” MacCready whooped, adrenaline surging. “I actually did that!” As Danse took a step towards him, MacCready’s bravado melted. Jeez, the guy was huge.

The screen door creaked again. They both turned their attention to Valentine, who watched from the doorway with a half-amused smile. “Are you two finished squabbling or do I have to put each of you over my knee? Not sayin’ that would be easy, but I’d be willing to give it a go.”

MacCready had never been so pleased to see a synth in his life. He gave Danse a quick glance and found the man’s tight shoulders sagging. “No, uh, I think we’re over it,” he answered, giving Valentine a shy wave. “Gonna be heading in soon.”

Suspicious yellow optics swung between Danse and MacCready before settling on the glass shards on the floor. “Be good, you two. Don’t make me turn this mission around and go home.” Valentine stepped out, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Danse snapped furious eyes to meet MacCready’s. Through his teeth, he spat, “How dare you try and embarrass me in front of a filthy synth.”

Leaning against the workbench, MacCready placed the heels of his palms on the lip of the table and gave a loose shrug. “Hey, that drunken bottle-toss was all you, pal. Honestly gotta say that I value having my face intact more than your pride.”

“You blatantly insulted both me and the Brotherhood.” Danse’s fists were balled at his sides. “Was it you? Have you been the one to turn those in Sanctuary Hills against me?”

MacCready swallowed an inappropriate laugh. “Nope. That’s been all you, too.” He took his eyes off the paladin to grab a Nuka-Cola from his bag. Wedging the Nuka bottle under the workbench lip, he slapped the cap off and pocketed it. “Lighten up, Danse,” he said, turning around to face him. “You’ve built up one heck of a wall between you and anyone else. No one knows anything about you other than the Brotherhood party lines you spout.” He took a sip of soda. “Do you even have a real name?”

Bristling, Danse gave a rude grunt. “Of course I have a real name.”

“I mean a first one. Seems ridiculously official for us to keep saying your last name, especially when we aren’t your subordinates.” MacCready took a second sip.

As though pained, Danse’s mouth twisted with displeasure. “It’s Daniel,” he confessed. 

MacCready choked on his mouthful of soda, snorting some up his nose. “Fuck – I mean, fudge,” he cursed through the burn. “Your name is _Dan Danse_? No wonder you drink.”

The paladin’s face seemed to redden. “I would highly prefer you keep using my surname. It’s what I’m used to.”

Coughing, MacCready pushed away from the workbench. “Well, I’m packing it in. Enjoy getting drunk and being sour. Night,  _Saul_.” Shouldering his bag, he tramped past the paladin, leaving the new rifle behind for the glue to harden overnight. He yanked the door of the boathouse open and rambled into the house, finishing his drink as he went.

Upstairs, Curie was asleep at a desk, arms folded over papers, her mouth softly open. MacCready happily took the solitary bed for himself and toed off his boots. He tugged the brim of his hat over his eyes and slept without dreaming.

As the sun rose, those who ate consumed a hasty breakfast before heading to their destination. MacCready retrieved _Oh Shit_ and stuffed it into his bag. Under the soft caress of daybreak, the Med-Tek Research facility turned out to be a nondescript green and white building, its only distinguishing feature being a dried-out fountain by the front gate. Valentine frowned beneath his hat. “Forgive me, but I’m underwhelmed.”

Shivering, Curie looked to the silent structure of Med-Tek. “There is no telling what we will be finding inside of this place. Is this excitement I feel, or apprehension? Both sensations are quite similar.” No one had an answer for her.

The paladin, in his full, repaired armor, had been silent all morning. There was no way to tell through that helmet whether he was hungover or still pissed. With a sharp slice of his hand, he gestured for them to move forward. They entered through the front doors one by one, not with trepidation. Inside, the occasional halogen bulb still shone brightly, granting the lobby pockets of warm amber illumination, a brief respite from the murky corners and darkened hallways beyond the entrance.

“I feel like this is the beginning of a bad joke,” Valentine mused, his pistol at the ready. “A tin can, a synth, a sniper and a mechanical man walk into a lobby…”

As they hovered in the foyer, Danse stowed his helmet, revealing dark circles under his eyes. MacCready was relieved to see the helmet go – turning the headlamp on would have acted as a beacon, drawing whatever nasties there were straight to them as they pressed deeper into the building. Danse’s human eyes would have to adjust to the dimness instead, just like the rest of them.

Adjusted his grip on his sniper rifle, MacCready flexed his fingers. “All right. Here’s to finding those labs. Any chance we’ll get lucky?”

A hissing growl carried from past the front desk.

He snapped the rifle against his still-bruised shoulder. “I had to ruin everything by saying that, didn’t I?”

They braced, weapons raised. Curie huddled behind them.

A feral ghoul hurled itself from the shadows.

MacCready held his breath and squeezed the trigger. _Here we go._


	11. Descent

CAIT

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 24th, 2287

Cait stepped off her front stoop, ready to reassume guard duty. Early morning air with thick with fog, eerie and portentous in the false dawn light that made the vapor glow. She loaded two shells into the shotgun she carried – Hancock’s shotgun, taken from him when he’d been brought to the cellar. Before retreating off to bed, she’d slipped a length of chain around the cellar’s door handles and secured it with a padlock. The key still rode in her back pocket, not trusting anyone else with it. Hell – one soft-hearted moment and someone might fold, letting that half-mad shuffler loose to wander the streets.

Her frozen heart gave her the advantage. No one could ever accuse Cait of being unduly sentimental. She wouldn’t waver, wouldn’t crumble under culpability. She could easily distinguish when someone had met their fate and had no wish to engage in an emotional argument over it. All this fuss over keeping watch over a condemned man irritated her. He was already gone, or close enough to it that the divide no longer mattered. That swell of hope half of them had argued over was a fallacy, projecting their needs, not John’s, wanting to prove _their_ value in the face of impossible odds.  

Arriving in the paladin’s yard, she acknowledged Strong with a grimace. Pacing slowly through the fog, dragging the heavy end of a puncturing board through the dirt, he looked like some nightmarish creature emerging from a dreamscape. Cait stilled a shudder before it could emerge. The super mutant had been called up – Preston’s idea, a foolhardy attempt at _inclusion_ – to spend the night keeping watch over the cellar. “Still quiet down there?” she asked.

“Nothing happens. Boring job for Strong.” The cold morning made his breath puff in a thick cloud of white condensation.

She hummed, not ready to voice her agreement with a mutant. Boring was right. Boring and stupid. What a goddamned inconvenience this was. The whole of Sanctuary had gone to pot, concerned with the feckin _feelings_ of muties and brain-eaters over the security of real people.

“Right, then. Off with you.” Shuffling to keep warm, Cait stared at her feet, not daring accidental eye contact with the mutant. Who knew what might set him off, leading him – it – to tear every last person here in half and throw them into a stewpot.

“Little female can have job,” he grumbled, lumbering past on his way to the street. “Village life for humans, not super mutants.” His lumpy green back disappeared into the mist.

“Amen to that,” she muttered, watched him go. Relieved, she took a seat and leaned against the peeling lead paint of the house’s exterior. She stretched her legs out, several chips flaking off as she moved. The steel doors she sat on were cold against her ass. The morning was quiet, dull – everyone busy with more suitable jobs elsewhere. That was Cait – good for muscle and little else. She lit a cigarette, cupping her hands around it until the tip smoldered. Pocketing the lighter, she drew a deep drag and puffed out a long plume of silvery smoke.

She’d missed her opportunity to just shank Nate and run off. Now, she was trapped here, expected to play nice in this community the guy had built. She tried not to be an absolute shite. People were nice to her and the men flirted openly without grabbing her. She had a guaranteed roof over her head, a house all her own, and every meal was hot and fresh.

Still, an unsettling sense of debt gnawed at her as she smoked, precious nicotine a salve for her worries. She’d been traded to Nate, like any other slave. Only after claiming her had the langer asked for her opinion. Nate treated her decently, hadn’t tried to crawl in bed with her or beat her, but the dope often expected her to run in, guns blazing, to help protect wayward shanties and foolish blokes that found themselves in a bad way. Why should she stick her neck out for those too idiotic to take care of themselves?

Maybe raiders were the only ones that got it right. They weren’t heroes. They didn’t waste their time on lost causes. Take what you need and bugger the rest. Cait didn’t care about caps or karma. She wanted simplicity. Fight or die were the options that she knew. Here in Sanctuary, goals were muddled. The whole lot of them had separate motivations – redemption, enlistment, forgiveness, enlightenment – and those were only the incentives she was aware of. She was no Minuteman, no blind soldier of Steel of fortune, had no affiliation and no perks. But beat a bloke in the head with a bat? She could do that, and willingly.

By the time late morning had arrived, the mist had thinned, allowing beams of light to penetrate cloud cover. Under the subtle touch of the sun, the world looked a little less desolate **.**

Stewing in her thoughts, she wished she’d taken a hit of Psycho instead of settling for a fag. The sawed-off shotgun, balanced over her knees, jostled as she shook her ankle, slight withdrawal tugging at her. Her skin itched. How long since her last hit? Twelve hours? Damn. She debated stepping away, her house mere moments away.  

A muffled bang rang out from within the cellar.

Pulling the filter from her lips, she glanced down at the closed access. She ground the butt of her cigarette into the dirt and stood. The noise continued, the sounds of clanging and breaking wood rising up through the crack in the cellar doors. She waited until the racket grew into a constant stream before slipping the key into the lock and flinging one door open. As she raised the shotgun, her finger found the trigger. She squinted into the cellar. “Hell,” she spat.

Silhouetted by the lantern, a still-tethered ghoul strained to demolish anything he could reach. Boxes had been kicked into walls, the wood shattering. The mattress was ripped and eviscerated, white stuffing littering the ground. A radio lay smashed in a corner. Cinder blocks had been tossed across the room to explode into chunky heaps of concrete. The ghoul’s shoulders were bunched tightly as he pulled food racks down one-handed, dumping their contents. Was he yelling or growling? It was hard to tell.

“Hancock!” she called down, taking a knee to brace her weapon. Maybe she’d blow his legs off, just to keep him stationary. “If you’re in there at all you bloody well better freeze!”

The snarling reached a crescendo, crested, and tempered into a whimper. Down in the cellar, the air seemed to ripple, a heat effect that had nothing to do with temperature. Cait felt a wave of nausea pass over her and her stomach twisted. _Dammit. Rads._ The toxic emission hung heavily, clinging to the outline of the costumed ghoul. She swallowed bile and fired off to the left, shotgun pellets harmlessly spraying the hedges. She fumbled to reload.

The sound of the blast seemed to jar the ghoul, and he stilled. “Wait,” his torn voice rasped. “Wait!” He raised his free hand. “Just…stay there,” he ordered, breathless.

Cait kept her aim true. Her stomach churned, and she longed for a packet of RadAway. This farce was ludicrous. She should do it, should end this parade of insanity in a spray of pellets. No one would know. _Yeah, went feral again. Tried to tear me arm off!_ she could say. Some of the others would be upset at first, but they’d understand eventually. Life is hard. Hard and unfair. Everyone knew that.

The ghoul fell to his knees upon the torn mattress. He gripped at his bound wrist and lowered his face down into the hollow between his forearm and chest, his hat nearly touching his knees. What a pitiful image he made.

She clenched her teeth as a memory intruded.

_You doin’ okay? I know a joneser when I see one._

It had been her second day in Sanctuary. She’d been curled up in her house, rocking back and forth, unable to stop, when the ghoul had sought her out, looking like a fop in his getup. He’d offered her a single dose of Psycho.

_Here. To get you back on your feet ‘til you can sort out what you’ve gotta._

He’d kept an eye on her since then, shooting up together so neither would have to be alone. They’d trusted each other with their addictions and their lives, not friends, but allies at least.

Still tense, muscles burning from her crouch, Cait gave a frustrated grunt. She lowered the barrel and straightened. Damn that spanner, MacCready. He’d been right. No one wanted the blame for this.

She plucked the rounds from the shotgun’s chamber with sharp efficiency and tossed a single shell into the cellar, where it clattered and rolled somewhere out of sight. Then she dropped the shotgun into the rectangle of morning light pooling at the bottom of the cellar. It landed with a dusty _plop_. “C’mon then,” she dared. “Use your last lucid moment and spare us. Handle it yourself.”

He gawked, soulless black eyes staring through her.

She slammed the cellar door shut and locked it. There. Now this wouldn’t be anyone’s fault. No guilt or finger-pointing.

Cait rewarded her sharp thinking with a double hit of Psycho.


	12. Mercy

NICK

Med-Tek Research, MA

November 24th, 2287

Having reloaded, Nick spun the cylinder on his revolver and snapped it shut. The others – those that breathed – panted in the gap between attacks. Med-Tek had come pre-packaged with a slew of savage ghouls. They hadn’t been lucky enough to pick them off one at a time, oh, no – someone hadn’t crossed their fingers and toes – instead, packs of ferals had surged forward like waves crashing on a shore, causing them to shoot wildly into the onslaught.

In the momentary calm, MacCready resumed the lead, his duffle bounced on his back and his old sniper rifle in his hands as he steered them through the building. The décor inside Med-Tek was pleasingly rounded, an aesthetic intended to evoke feelings of comfort. Perhaps the designs would have fulfilled their purpose more effectively had the surfaces not been painted with brown smears of old blood and covered in debris. Crumbling corridors clogged with refuse from the levels above slowed their progress through the building. The group passed a sealed airlock, its very presence hinting at keeping something nasty out…or in. They kept wide-eyed Curie, looking as if she’d love nothing more than to stop and examine each room of equipment they passed, covered in the center.

“Man, this places reeks,” MacCready grumbled. Curie had her arm over her nose, and the paladin’s usual disdainful expression was even more acute.

“Glad the Institute left some of my senses on the cutting room floor,” Nick joked, glad to free of certain burdens, such as stink.

As they crowded up a flight of twisting stairs, more hissing ghouls came down on them from an upper level. MacCready ducked and scrambled backwards as Danse’s armored bulk kept the seething ferals bottlenecked up the top. Trapped in the narrow stairwell and thankfully unwilling to risk a stray shot in such close quarters, the solider used his gun to batter instead of shoot, occasionally crushing heads against walls with the flat of his hand. Behind him, Nick wiped his face clean of gelatinous feral blood, catching the irony of fighting _through_ ghouls to save one. “Curie?” Nick asked, checking her status. Behind him, she nodded, eyes bright, satchel clutched tight to her chest, a grenade in one hand. _Of course, she’s fine_ , Nick chided himself. When did he think this was this – 2032? Despite her troubles with dexterity, Curie was no damsel in distress.

At the top of the stairs they spilled into a large windowless room with two levels **–** cubicles where research employees had whiled away the last days of their pre-war lives. Torn, stained carpet squished underfoot, occasional picture frames or lunch boxes scattered under desks. The ghouls they’d fought and killed, the ones they’d yet to encounter, had all been putting in a few extra hours on a Saturday morning two-hundred-and-ten years ago.

Nick spied movement on the upper balcony as gnarled bodies rushed past. Danse and MacCready confidently fired into the higher areas as Nick picked off the ferals that broke though. Once cleared, the sniper led the group further up and further in.

As they filed into one of the upper offices, a once-stately room with plastic ferns, MacCready elbowed them aside. “Move move move.” He bent over a powered terminal on a desk and typed in a series of passwords, tongue tracing his upper lip.

“Sure you don’t wanna leave that to the professional? I am fluent in machine, ya know,” Nick reminded.

The kid jerked his head no. “I’ve had the passwords for some time. Piece of pie.”

“I do believe that the phrase is _cake_ , Monsieur,” Curie melodic voice corrected.

MacCready continued to punch keys. “Cake. Pie. Mutfruit pudding. Whatever.” The computer blipped and chimed. “Thank, God. Okay.” He stood and readjusted his shoulder strap. “The lower levels should be unlocked.”

Nick’s plastic mouth turned down. “Should?”

“Yeah, _should_. I’m not a lab geek, okay?” MacCready spouted in defense, slamming a hand down on the desk. His pursed lips and wrinkled nose made his narrow face look pinched. The kid looked strange, desperation bright in his eyes. _The guy’s hiding something,_ he thought. MacCready’s convenient knowledge of the building layout hadn’t been lost on Nick. He’d had been playing this whole venture close-to-the-chest.

“Calm down, kiddo,” Nick said. “We’re all on the same side.”

“I…yeah, sorry.” MacCready removed his hat and wiped sweat from underneath. “Just wanna get this over with.”

“Agreed,” the paladin chimed in from where he stood watching the entryways. Curie was crouched nearby, checking the tattered pockets of the downed ferals for supplies, keys, or anything useful. 

Following MacCready’s instructions, they ventured back downstairs, all the way back to the airlock. Again, MacCready took change of accessing the terminal. “You seem to know a hell of a lot about this place for not being a lab geek,” Nick noted with a biting tone, trying to get a read on him.

“Aw, you’re sweet,” MacCready crooned in mock-obliviousness.

“It doesn’t matter,” Danse snapped from the rear. “You’re delaying the mission. Let’s get on with it.”

Nick and MacCready both shared a surprised glance at the paladin’s terse dismissal. The man was usually a stickler for details.

The airlock system remained dead and broken, but the doors to an adjacent antechamber worked just fine **.** And the alarms. Security systems whirred to life as they stepped inside, mounted turrets spinning on their bases, searching for recognizable threats. The standard furnishings had been left outside of the airlock. In here, rows of heavy steel doors lined the walls. Thick pipes of ventilation and nuclear conductors climbed the walls.

Nick whistled at the high level of security. “Something important was kept here,” he said, stealing a glance at the paladin. Danse’s eyes were shining, mouth threatening to turn up at the corners. It was the first time Nick could recall the man looking hopeful.

The paladin’s expression hardened again as they heard the grumbling moans that were unmistakably ghoul. As their troupe stepped forward to engage, the paladin’s suit started clicking. _Radiation._ Danse jerked his head curtly towards the end of the hall. “Move. Quickly.”

The old synth started picking off enemies as they scurried from the shadows, each shot of his pistol accompanied by the deep twang of the paladin’s laser rifle. MacCready slid from terminal to terminal, on desks or mounted shoulder-height, as they moved, unlocking sealed doors as Curie clung to the tail of his duster. They continued to carve a path through ferals and up another hallway. Lights flashed, sirens hooted warnings. Time stretched as they lived in a world of teeth, claws, weaving hallways and the steady tick of the paladin’s Geiger counter.

They gained a break when they came to a section housing a collection of thrashing ferals locked within research rooms. No telling how long they had been there. Hell, maybe since before the bombs? One roared through glass, clawing at a window inches from the paladin’s face. Its teeth knocked against the glass, rotted skin leaving faint smears of gore as it slid across the pane, vacant eyes unfocused. The feral must have been a tall man a lifetime ago to be level with the suited paladin. Danse paused to watch it, brow creased in a disturbed expression.

Leaping a toppled crash cart, MacCready raced to an elevator at the back of the room, Curie on his heels. “Let’s go!” he shouted as the elevator doors scraped open with a sharp sound. He and Curie slipped inside.

Nick stepped partway in before leaning out to locate Danse. The paladin remained enraptured by the feral. Its breath fogged the glass. “Leave it, rust bucket,” Nick ordered. Blinking, Danse tore himself away and joined them.

The rusted doors grated, metal on metal, as they closed. They rode through a small tubular elevator shaft, beams of light washing over them with each level they passed. Elevator music chimed softly as they shuffled. It was a short trip. The elevator pinged as it jerked to a stop and the doors opened. They filed out and turned a corner, revealing another multi-leveled area.

MacCready threw up his hands in frustration, shaking his rifle. “Who designs this crap?”

“You’re the expert, buddy-boy,” Nick reminded as shuffling noises came from all directions. “We’re just along to get you through.”

Shambling footfalls and grumbling growls grew louder even moment. With a sharp inhale, Danse raised his weapon. “You all know the drill by now.”

Ferals roused themselves from random corners, crawling into the room from cracks in fallen ceiling tiles and emerging from piles of rubble. They fell into more of the same dance – flying bullets, laser beams and guts, punctuated by wailing alarms. Danse disabled the security, firing overhead while Nick and MacCready cleared the ferals. Pieces of turrets and alarm boxes rained down as they pressed forward, through winding corridors and down staircases.

Finally, silence. The sub-level they found themselves in was clear. The men paused to congratulate themselves, nodding to one another.

A growling wail shattered the stillness as a solitary glowing feral tore around a corner and into sight. Curie squeezed past the them, tossing a single grenade that ended the glowing one in a shower of florescent matter. The three of them blinked at Curie. “My apologies if anyone’s hearing is temporarily damaged,” she said as she picked luminescent goo from her hair. “The effect will be short-lived.”

MacCready broke away to access a terminal lodged on a nearby wall and worked whatever magic he had been using throughout Med-Tek. A set of double doors slid open and they found themselves looking into a vast laboratory littered with equipment and vials. “Yes!” MacCready cheered, taking a leap into the air.

“Calm yourself, sparky,” Nick warned as they entered. “Our job ain’t done yet.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Right,” MacCready babbled as he slunk through the room, pocketing handfuls of stimpaks and other random hypodermics. He pranced in a circle, happily hopping from foot to foot in a rhythmless dance.

_Nutcase._

Nick shook his head and switched his attention to the laboratory itself. A massive radiation chamber shared the room with them, spanning from floor to ceiling and wide enough around to swallow a suit of power armor whole. The paladin’s Geiger continued to ping warnings.

Curie threw herself into a search for chem components, popping open containers, skimming over counters and rummaging through drawers. “Non,” she huffed as she slammed a cabinet door shut.

“What exactly are you looking for, doll?” Nick asked.  

Pawing through a box, she sighed. “There is so much data in the world beyond my initial programming. Med-Tek was not one of the industries consulted when I was constructed. Their research is a mystery to me. It is my hope – my _expectation_ – that they would have a stockpile of elements on the cutting edge of scientific discovery.” She glanced around and stood up straight.

“What is it?” Danse asked, his laser rifle still at the ready.

Curie strode pointedly to the center of the room and spun a valve on the radiation chamber. The paladin closed the distance between them and shoved her away from it as air rushed to escape. She shook her head and tried to push him away. “The substance what we have come for – it will be within this pod. Of this I am certain.”

“Both of you take a breath,” Nick commanded. He took a bottle of Rad-X from a counter and handed it to Curie. To Danse, he remained, “We don’t have time to play it safe.”

With some hesitation, the paladin stepped aside and let her continue. Inside, within a sealed compartment, sat several vials. Curie pried the entire collection out of the cavity and deposited it on a lab table. The paladin slammed the chamber door closed. It spit flumes of air and resealed.

Curie cooked the remedy right there in the lab, balancing on a chair with three legs. It took an unordinary amount of time. She was careful, slow and precise, holding her breath as she measured and mixed compounds drop by drop. Hours crawled by. Nick and Danse stood watch on either side of the double doors, while MacCready hummed happily into his duffle and played with a fat syringe, looking like someone off his rocker.

When Curie finally blew out a breath of relief, the puff momentarily raising her bangs from her forehead, she sat back in her chair and nearly tipped it. She held up a single vial glowing with azure radiance.

“Well, I’ll be. That’s it then?” Nick asked, wandering over.

Curie looked exhausted yet pleased. “Oui. I do believe that this will be how we shall assist Monsieur Hancock.”

He took the vial in his slender fingers for a closer inspection. The substance inside looked beautiful and deadly, exactly the type of thing John would readily inject without much forethought. _Full circle then, is it?_ Nick wondered. _One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small._

“Alright, alright,” MacCready cheered, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

They went out the same way they had entered, climbing back into the elevator again. As they unloaded, Danse paused to reevaluate the same lab-feral from before. Slowing as he passed, Nick had to crane his neck to even see it. Still trapped behind glass, it had lain down in a corner, waiting for either salvation or death.

“Hold up,” Danse instructed. He swung his metal-encased fist and shattered the glass. The barrel of his laser rifle slid through the hole in the window and he fired, painting the holding cell’s walls with dark blood.

It was a small mercy, atypical for his faction.

Danse turned away, brows lowered, mouth set in a hard line, and marched in rumbling steps down the hallway, continuing their escape from the complex.

They pushed the front doors open to be greeted by waning daylight. The sun hung too low in the west, touching the horizon. “Let’s go,” the paladin urged, moving past them to take the lead. “We’ve wasted too much time already. No stopping tonight.”


	13. The Fucking Lottery

PIPER

Sanctuary Hills Root Cellar, MA

November 24th, 2287

On Piper’s second visit, she brought a bit more empathy with her. And a bribe. This time, Codsworth was on guard and easily persuaded to allow her entry, despite Cait’s complaining about having to hand over the padlock key. 

 At the bottom of the ladder, she found the cellar in disarray. Well, perhaps that was putting it nicely – the place was trashed. In the dim lantern light, she had to watch her footing to avoid shards of wood or rolling her ankle on a wayward can. Cartons of dirty water had been drained and discarded, and several tins of pre-war food lay empty on the dirt floor. Upon that mattress sat John, staring ahead with vacant eyes, the fingers on his free hand raking deep grooves through the bedding, allowing stuffing to escape in white cotton puffs. He was still cuffed by one hand to the safe wheel. The guy had clearly experienced a rough day, alone with his thoughts. A shotgun lay close enough to the mattress that if John struggled, he could reach it.

“Hey, sister.” He sounded tired, the words spoken in an undertone.

Piper attempted a reassuring smile and flashed a box of Mentats at him. He surprised her by shaking his head. “Clarity ain’t I need right now,” his rough voice insisted. “But I’d happily take a bottle of moonshine if you had one on you.”

“Fresh out.” Pocketing the chems, Piper took a stance at the foot of the mattress and took a deep breath. “I just wanted to say that, well, I’m sorry about the article. It wasn’t really about you.” She pulled at the fingers of her gloves. “Well, I mean, it _was_ about you, but it wasn’t, ya know, personal.”

“That’s what I keep hearing.” His fingernails kept dragging over the wounds in the mattress.

“It was human interest. The people wanted to know.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend her actions; she knew she’d been wrong. Old habits, she guessed.

His eyes finally found hers. Something flashed in them – tinges of green and gold – or maybe it was just her imagination. “It was gossip,” he spat with distaste. “That’s why it sold. Be honest about it – you were young and needed the money. Ain’t the first time someone’s had to use that excuse.”

She swallowed and dropped her head to watch her boot scrape back and forth across the dirt.

It had been Piper’s first article for _Publick Occurrences_ – a catalyst chronicling several acts of insanity that had ultimately cost John McDonough everything. Had he been allowed to keep his secrets, she imagined that a lot of people would be leading very different lives. Odd. She felt guilty for not feeling bad. She wasn’t sorry for being hungry and clutching onto the first big story that came her way. Guy McDonough had been bulletproof; no evidence or speck of dirt marred his record. So she had taken a different approach – discredit the McDonough name by highlighting the follies of the more popular younger brother instead. She had gone to Valentine, enticing him find a source close to the baby brother of the shady mayoral candidate that would talk with her. It had cost her entire life savings, an investment that swiftly matured. Within a week, she and her sister had gone from sleeping on mats under the stands to buying her own home office. Every household in Diamond City had purchased at least one copy of her inaugural article. She hadn’t written anything that successful again until Blue had come along.

“Where did you get the drug?” Looking up, she recalled the conversation at the mess hall, what, two nights ago? “You know – the one that made you rippley.”

“More questions, huh? I guess I should expect that.” He shrugged and half-heartedly tossed a small rock against the wall of the cellar. It pinged off stone before bouncing into the shadows. “It was…fuck, where was it?...some hush-hush place in the west. My dealer found it in some wreckage off the coast. One big dose of rads all at once. Thought it’d be fitting – not leaving enough of myself behind to recognize. I could disappear. Just another body in the Wastes.” 

“But that’s not what happened. You ended up living through it.” She pulled her notepad out. “You came back different.”

The incredulous look he threw her made her feel like an idiot. “What are you – out of a Vault? I’m not a damn zombie. How can you have lived your whole life in the Wastes and still know neither jack nor shit about ghouls?”

“Can’t say I’ve ever been inclined to care.” She’d tired to keep the defense out of her voice. Truth was, she’d been happy to see the ghouls leave Diamond City, even if the manner had been unjust and shocking. She made her living of placing doubt and instilling fear, some of which she carried with her at all times. With them gone, yeah, the city felt a little more secure.

John gave an annoyed grunt. “Fine. Try and follow.” He leaned towards her, fixing her with his indecipherable eyes. “If you’re a human grape then I’m a raisin. We burn hot. Not in the sexy way – I’m talking temperature-wise. It’s in the rads. Uses up a lot of fluid, ya see. Dries us out. Makes our blood thicker, throats drier. S’why we sound the way we do. Can’t hardly spit. My knees hurt. My joints hurt. We can’t cry, we can’t sweat. It’s really damn uncomfortable.”

“So…you’re just a dehydrated version of you?”

He leaned away, his posture sagging into a dejected pose. “You got a gift for making my whole damn life sound trivial, don’t you?”

There it was again – that unsettling feeling in her gut. A sense of remorse and mistakes too old to fix. “I…sorry,” she said. “I guess I get stuck in a mode.” She took a seat at the edge of the mattress, its ancient springs creaking. “Can you start at the beginning?”

“Beginning of what? My skin sloughing off in Goodneighbor? Nobody wants to hear that. The beginning of the beginning? Is that want you want?”

“Call it a morbid curiosity,” Piper divulged, “but I wanna know where it all started.” She clicked her pen.

“Suit yourself. I’m not going anywhere.” John tried to sit up straight but was hindered by his manacled hand. Leaning his free arm on one knee instead, his eyes lost focus, drudging up memories. “I think the day I was born was the worst day of my brother’s life. Fifteen years between us, you know. My folks could finally afford to move outta Diamond City and make their way to Liberty Isle, New York. Real exclusive place – only five families were there. Safe, Upper Bay surrounding us on all sides, plus a nice, solid statue to live in. Soon as he could, though, Guy moved right back to the Great Green Jewel. So, it was just my folks and me.” He paused and raised a brow ridge at her. “Gonna need a cigarette for the rest of this.”

Piper paused in her notetaking and fumbled to light him one. He took a lengthy drag and continued.

“Rad hurricane came through in the mid ‘60s. Contaminated everything. Whole island came down with Rad Fever. I had it for three months, spent the whole time in bed.” He blew a long, slow plume of smoke. “My folks…they didn’t make it.”

Piper wanted to give her condolences but held her tongue. She had a feeling that the story was about to get worse.

“Guy sent word, asking me to come up, but I just wanted things to stay normal, as normal as they could be. I looked after myself, kept up with schooling, and had no troubles.” He stopped smoking. The cigarette hung from his fingers, molten red tip fading. “Then, when I was seventeen, I got a girl in trouble.” He locked eyes with her. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Piper stopped writing. She nodded.

“Stacia. She never told anyone. Soon after, she just…disappeared. No reason. No note.” He shook his head, gaze lost on the past again. “Well, I panicked, the whole island panicked, and her brother and I thought it our responsibility to find her. Mallory – her brother – and me, we left Liberty Isle, young and stupid, not knowing where to start looking.” He shook his head, cigarette still forgotten. The ash column crumbled and fell, leaving only the filter. “That damn city. No way could we have ever been prepared for New New York.” John brought the cigarette back to his lips and seemed momentarily confused as to why it had burned down before flicking the butt across the cellar. He traced his teeth with his tongue and kept talking.

 “Was kinda inevitable, ya know, that we’d immediately stumble across a super mutant hive.” He froze in place, unblinking. “I remember…I remember Mal screaming, calling out my name as he was torn apart. Begging me to do something, to save him, to shoot him, to put him out of his misery. But I hid.” He turned his face to her with a grim smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I hid while my friend was eaten. That’s what kind of man John McDonough was. Part of why he had to die, why I had to make sure he was gone forever.”

He didn’t sound like himself. He sounded like…the old John. She remembered him – the way he was. The young man with the wild, blonde hair that came and went at all hours, using the back exits to avoid uncouth scenes with his brother – Diamond City security had told her as much when she first started investigating him. Both siblings naturally stank of politics, old money, and trouble.

John gulped and concluded with, “Turns out, Stacia took off to get rid of it – the baby, I mean. But situations being as they are in the Wastes, she died too. Died long before we could have gotten to her.” He lapsed into silence, the torn muscles in his cheeks sliding under thin skin as his jaw clenched. “I made a hell of a lot of mistakes when I was younger, no arguing. But I never guessed that anybody’d actually try and capitalize on my misery. Wasn’t just my life you ruined, Piper.” He squeezed his black eyes shut. “I’m sure he knows what I did…what I had to,” he said, digressing into a train of thought she didn’t follow. “Probably why he hates me. And I don’t blame ‘im. I didn’t plan to stick around after that. I was finished. But I couldn’t even die right. I’m not supposed to be here.”

Piper, silent as the stars, looked at him with trepidation overflowing in her eyes. She felt awful. Not just for herself, but for him as well. She had deliberately made the decision to attack the more vulnerable, younger McDonough in the vague hope that it would enrage the older one into making a mistake that she could capitalize on. It dawned on her that perhaps she had a responsibility to do no harm in her reporting. Too little, too late.

She set her pad and pen aside and moved off the mattress to kneel beside him. John traced a finger around a tear in the knee of his trousers, picking at stray threads. “Make sure MacCready looks after Goodneighbor, will ya?” he intreated. "Hate to think that the whole place might fall to pieces when you have to put me down.”

Piper plucked a tiny item from her pocket. She took his bound wrist and turned it, her other hand finding the keyhole in the cuff. Nick hadn’t felt it when she’d picked his pocket for the key during their brief exchange before his group had left. Oh, Nicky – too nice, too ignorant of the lengths she’d go to in order to ensure she got her way. With the tiniest click, the cuff unlocked. It was the only amount of dignity she could grant John, and nothing like what she owed him.

John started dumbly down at the dangling manacle, as if unsure of what to do now.

She stood up and retrieved her items. With a rip, she tore a blank page from her notepad, which she handed to him, along with her pen. “You used to write, didn’t you?” she asked. “If there’s anything you wanna say, anything you wanna leave behind…go ahead.”

John had brought his newly freed hand up to form a fist over his chest. He accepted her gifts, placing them atop the safe next to the bed. He then laid back on the mattress, fingers lacing over his chest, boots crossing at the ankles, serene and accepting eyes fixing on the ceiling.

Piper left him like that. She had a retraction to write.

That night, the words flowed easily.

_An Oath Both to and from Hippocrates, by Piper Wright_

_“Mistakes. I’ve made a few. I suppose that’s no surprise to any of you. But give me a chance to explain….”_


	14. Evolution

JOHN

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 25th, 2287

John hadn’t wasted what time he had left sleeping. Instead, between taking the six paces forward and six paces back that the length of the cellar allowed, he stewed about his situation. Focused intensity. He was normally good at that. It was just far less enjoyable without the Mentats.

Tonight, the cellar walls blurred, hazy in the margins of his concentration, the rush of his pulse loud in his ears. Hours after Piper had gone, he’d mustered the strength to peel himself on the mattress to search for the shotgun shell Cait had so ceremoniously tossed down to him. He hadn’t gone near the shotgun itself, leaving it where it had landed. In one hand, his fingers played with the shell, turning it over and over. In the other hand, he clutched Piper’s pen. The choice of death or commemoration lay before him, possibility his final decision before taken by his own actions or the pull of a feral turn.

_Hell, why not seize both options?_ he pondered, kneeling over the safe to use it as a writing surface. He set the shell aside and smoothed out the paper Piper had left him, placing pen to page. There’d be time enough for suicide later.

Maybe.

The light from the low-burning lantern pained his eyes, the scratch of the pen an assault on his hearing. John paused at the introduction, only a few words in. With a deep frown, he gripped the pen tight enough for tendons to pop from the back of his hand. A last testament from…who? Or _whom_ , for the high-brow linguists out there. John Hancock or John McDonough? The identities slid back and forth as he imagined glaring hazel or coal-black eyes staring back at him from polished surfaces. He could still feel the pull of the tie that used to hold his long hair back, the tightness of it making his bare scalp itch.

He’d never properly buried his former self, had left him to die in the basement of the Old State House, just another anonymous body for the pile outside Goodneighbor. Pain and desperation had clouded his judgement, ill feelings that he’d clung to ever since taking that one hit, that frame of mind necessary to survive the life he’d found himself living after that green junk had faded from his system.

And now? He was faced with two possibilities. One, that nothing would interfere, and his next brush with feral-dom would stick forever. Or two, that the group would come back –  that his shining knight would crest the Old North Bridge in time – and bring salvation. John would stay as he was and nothing would change. If the second option occurred, he wouldn’t be able to stay in Sanctuary, couldn’t bear to share it with the people the vaultie had collected. Too many memories, still pungent and raw, made him wish he’d opted for a bullet instead of an irradiated hypodermic.

His eyes flitted to the shotgun shell sitting upright and proud atop the safe. _Well, yeah. Never too late to fix mistakes, right?_ Setting the pen down, he reached for it, feeling the smooth cylinder, the cold casing, the weight of it in his hand. He formed a fist around it, a red-hot epicenter forming in the midst of his hazy existence.

Something pushed at John’s senses, knocking against him like a wave crashing to the shore, actually making him sway. He pressed fingertips against his temples, the pressure forcing him to focus. The fog faded, just for a moment, and he _felt_ it. Felt _them_ coming for him. _Family_. The word intruded, making him sick. Not his word, not even the right one, but their senses touched his and for a single instant, they were of one hive mind.

_We’re coming for you, to free you. One of us. Only us, the end, outside of time. Eternal._

In shock, he glanced around. The lantern’s flame had burned down to the wick, inconsequential to his eternally dilated eyes. The faintest shafts of blue-grey light framed the cellar door. John shoved himself to his feet and crossed to the ladder. Hopping up its rungs, he clung to it as he pressed an ear canal to the cool steel door.

There was no alarm, no warning shots fired from the defense turrets. It was the smell that alerted him – the scents of rot and gore and something bordering on familiar. He found it odd that he had never noticed it before.

They were coming from the northeast. John could hear them plainly now, deciphering intent in their rumbles and screeches.

A single deep, resounding twang from a laser musket echoed before a steady wail rumbled into existence. Someone had activated the siren.

John banged a fist against the cellar doors. They gave slightly before slamming down. _Locked._ Something jabbed at his palm. He opened his hand and blinked down at the shotgun shell. “Well, that’ll do it,” he proclaimed.

Dropping back down to the ground, he scooped the shotgun off the dirt floor, loaded the shell and cocked it. He sucked a quick breath, then reached to press the sawed-off barrels flush against the crack between the cellar doors. He fired and was knocked onto his back by the blast. Round shafts of blue light spilled down over him, holes left by flying pellets. Abandoning his empty firearm, he scrambled to his feet and jumped up the ladder. When he threw a shoulder at the doors, they fell open. The sky was just beginning to lighten. _Damn, morning already?_

Leveraging both hands on the cool, damp earth outside, John hauled himself out of his cage, retrieved his knife from its concealment and stood. His only stroke of luck was that his back-up weapon hadn’t been seized, that it had been forgotten about in the rush to confine him.

A swarm of ferals crested the knoll into Sanctuary Hills, a pinkish dawn to their backs. Instinctually, John recoiled and collided with the back of Danse’s house. A dozen ghouls rushed past him, ignoring his presence, converging on the properties on either side. One of the final ones slowed as it drew near. An ancient withered one, it hissed at him, emaciated skin drooping under its eye sockets. Strips of flesh hung from the exposed jaw, teeth clicking in contemplation as it examined him. John held his breath has he locked eyes with it, chills running up and down his spine. Its beady eyes glowed golden.

Amidst the screams and gunshots that were erupting all over Sanctuary, rads swirling in a greenish miasma at the edge of his awareness, John heard them. Their voices intruded, inciting madness. He pressed one hand to cover his ear, the other tightening on the handle of his knife.

_I’m late for work._

_Where are my children?_

_I’m getting married tomorrow._

The final threads of humanity, the last hint at consciousness caught in a loop, a single thought all that remained for these rad-eaten figures, whose rotted brains didn’t realize they were dead. A strained groan left John as he struggled to push them away, to fight the intrusion of voices. _This is where I go,_ another voice, one from John’s memories remarked, an echo from the past. _My evolution._

_Yours, too,_ the withered feral seemed to remind him as they stared at each other, rocking from side to side. _Join. Feed. Life_ , it vowed. _We remain when all else is dead._

Dogmeat rushed into the yard, snarling and snapping, taking a chunk out of the withered feral’s calf as he passed. The feral swung its head and pursued the baying shepherd, taking swipes at the dog as it was led away.

“Good, boy,” John praised.

John charged around the house and into the street. A cloud of flame billowed across the road as the robotic butler attempted to staunch the swarm. The blaze cut him off, forced him to alter course, cutting through gardens and leaping fences, rushing to put himself in front of the attack, slashing and jabbing as he went. Not a single feral fought back against him. A strange sensation strained his chest, and he had trouble catching his breath. That emerald fog threatened to consume him. 

He skidded to a stop behind the workshop. _Fuck._ There were more of them, spilling over the North Bridge, emerging from the waning night. He’d never seen so many converge at once. The population of Sanctuary rose to fight them, emerging from doorways, finding their way into firing positions. The ferals never slowed, never ducked out of the way. A limb would be blown apart and still they would keep pace, a shot to the head the only thing that stopped them.

A bullet flew past his cheek and caused a feral’s forehead to explode. John spun and followed the trajectory up to the roof of a nearby house. Deacon, dark shades flashing, reloaded his rifle and continued to fire into the throng. John kept charging a path through the development, which had become a whirlwind of flame, live fire, and claws. He became acutely aware that he was an idiot, that losing his tricorn could result in him being mistaken for a feral and shot. He tugged it down tighter.

_Soon_ , a voice thick with the sweet stench of decomposition and certainty, promised.

“Shut up!” he bellowed, throwing himself into a mass of ferals, causing them to sprawl like bowling pins.

He spotted Piper as she came tearing out of her house and into her yard. A trio of ferals were nearly upon her. She shoved one to the ground and unloaded several rounds of her firearm into the second. As she stomped the head of the first, the third feral leapt. John gripped his knife by the point and threw it. Steel flashed a reflection of growing daylight, a single burst of white light, as it spun before embedding into the chest of the bounding feral. Piper whirled in her faded red coat and John found himself looking down the barrel of her gun. She gasped as she noticed him and dropped her stance. “Up!” he shouted, shoving her, pointing to the roof, taking Deacon’s cue. He retrieved his blade, pulling it out of the feral with a wet pop.

The ferals were splitting, no longer in groups, trying to climb onto the houses where many had taken refuge. John stabbed at ragged bodies, keeping them from gaining enough purchase to scramble up the handhold in the makeshift walls. With his heart pumping hard and fast, like a sack full of angry snakes in his chest threatening to burst through his ribs, he attempted to use his weight to drive ferals back in clumps. They roared in protest but refrained from harming him. The siren still keened, adding to the bedlam.

He was loose limbed and clumsy now, his knife missing more often than connecting. His body was very warm. Feeling stifled, pressurized, he couldn’t get enough air. He looked down at the weapon in his hand then glanced around him, trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing. The world swam sickeningly before his eyes. He still clung to his knife without knowing why, feeling as if it were the final tether to something tangible. It was too difficult to keep going, like fighting through quicksand, each step too much of an effort. The knife fell from his hand as he was swallowed by oblivion. Colors flashed and melded behind his eyes.

Red.

Black.

Nothing.

Only the throb of emerald promise. 

No solution.

_No,_ he was reminded.

_One solution._

_Destroy it all._

_Rip it apart._

He snarled, the sound tearing from his throat. It sounded eerie, even to his ears. The surviving ferals joined him, their call a sinister reception in the morning air.


	15. That One Time, at the Capital

DANSE

Alexandria, VA

September 19th, 2277

The night air was hot and humid. Summers in Virginia could be particularly unkind. The crumbling buildings that flanked the bar blocked any breeze that might have rode the sky.

Amongst the trash in the narrow alley outside the tavern, Danse wiped sweat from his brow. He tucked his shirt into his pants, smoothing out any wrinkles. The other man had gone back inside, leaving Danse to struggle over what had just occurred. Fornicating in a back alley was not his proudest moment. In fact, he was certain that this might just be the lowest point in his life.

The act had been primitive and rough, just like he’d wanted it to be, a punishment for being alive, for his unclean desires. Throughout the entire session, the man had kept asking Danse if he was alright, missing the point of this indiscretion entirely. Then, once the man had been done with him and Danse felt his humiliation reach its peak, the man had rested his forehead against the back of Danse’s neck, lips grazing his skin, causing Danse to jolt in surprise. It had been a shockingly intimate act for the anonymity of their situation. Danse was lost as to what that was meant to imply. _Well done? Thank you?_

It had been…successful, Danse supposed. At some point, the other man had bitten him, and Danse ran careful fingers over the mark. Branded. Sullied. A memento of shame that he got to take with him. Fond memories of his couplings with Cutler had been watermarked by a visceral and filthy engagement with a stranger, a reminder of why people like him were an abomination akin to any mutant or delusional robot. Hiding it wasn’t enough. He’d had to bury it, kill it, lest it rear its ugly head ever again.

Danse found himself gasping, spiraling into fervent despair. _The Codex. Look to the Codex,_ he reminded himself. There was nothing he needed that wasn’t there. Cutler was gone, his memory spoiled, no reason to want what was past. His Brothers would look to him now, a leader, the embodiment of righteousness.

It was everything he’d ever wanted, at the small cost of his soul.     

The first crackling sob surprised him, paired with hot tears that stung his eyes. He broke, overcome with embarrassment and grief, neither to which was he unaccustomed to. Succumbing to a fit of emotion, he snatched a nearby garbage can full of bottles and hurled it across the alley, sending it careening into a defunct Nuka-Cola machine. The can hit hard, glass shattered inside of it, shards spilling out to glitter on the ground in the moonlight. Shoulders tensed, he strode to the vending machine and drove a fist through the glass door. Again and again he landed forceful blows against the machine, pummeling it with his fists until he bled, needing to destroy something, to provide some additional outlet for his anguish. He cried for Kreig, for the Brothers and Sisters lost in the siege, for all of those that he outlived, and for Mike Cutler. Always for Cutler.

Winded, his face wet, Danse stumbled backwards, wheezing warm air and fighting to settle his nerves. When the tears stopped, a vacant space was left in his chest, and he was fearful that nothing had really changed, that he’d only managed to dig himself deeper. He wiped at his face with the heels of his palms and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

The back door of the bar squealed open and Danse took a nervous gulp before turning. His mouth opened with bewilderment when he saw the other man, that skinny vagrant with an American flag slung distastefully around his waist, kicking the door closed, an open bottle of beer in each hand. His long hair was now loosely tied back at the nape of his neck. “Don’t go back in there,” he warned, handing Danse one of the bottles.

 “Why?” Although Danse preferred hard alcohol, he accepted the offered bottle.

“It ain’t a place for either of us,” was the man’s answer as he took a seat on the back stoop.

Frowning, Danse glanced down at his beer. The bottle felt graciously cool in his hand. He must look a fright, eyes itching and his fists stinging. Bringing the bottle to his lips, he downed too much at first before slowing. He took a gagged sigh and looked at his companion, who sat calmly sipping his beer in absolute leisure.

The back door banged open with a rusty squeal, and three soldiers spilled out, causing the man with the flag to shift out of their way. Through the doorway, a disk jockey howled over the radio as a vigorously upbeat song flipped into rotation. Danse watched the trio head to the opposite side of the alley, mindful of the broken glass, undo their trousers and piss into a gutter, talking too loudly and laughing.

Danse tore his gaze away and faced the wall in front of him, tense grasp on his bottle threatening to break it. He dared to glance down at the man on the steps, who sipped his beer in quiet contemplation, his eyes lazily traveling between Danse’s face and the trio’s backs. The neon light from the exit sign cast an unnatural hue onto his hair.

Without a break in their conversation, the soldiers hiked their pants back up and went back inside. As the door closed, Danse took a deep breath that vibrated in his tight chest. If those soldiers had appeared fifteen minutes earlier…

The man was looking back over his shoulder, as if seeing through the door and into the bar. “Hey, Crew-Cut…did something ugly almost happen? Is it a big deal that we –”

“That isn’t your business,” Danse snapped, adjusting his grip on the bottle.

The man shrugged. “Suppose not.”

“What if we’d been caught?” The question sent deep-rooted fear bubbling to the surface.

Another shrug. “What if we were? These are your cronies, not mine. Aren’t they use to you –” Danse face must have turned white, stopping the man mid-sentence. “Oh,” he continued, his manner subtly shifting from lighthearted to guarded. “They don’t know.”

“No. They don’t,” Danse said, a hint of anger in his voice. “I’m not like you.”

 The man snorted, tipping his beer to his mouth. “Like you know me. That was my first foray. Can see the appeal, though.”

_Oh, no. No._ Danse’s perversion had tainted someone else. Heat rose to his face and traveled up his neck and the stranger drank. Guilt threaded its way into his nerves, leaving hot trails of disgrace. He opened his mouth then closed it, trying to find the right words, some way out of this scenario. The man’s eyes were sharp, intelligent and cunning. There was nothing fearsome about him, other than the fact that he was making Danse sweat, surely welcoming the licentiousness of the moment. He waited for Danse to speak, one blonde brow cocked. Danse cleared his throat. He opened his mouth and failed once more, closing it again.

“Quit mouthing like a fish and sit down,” the man instructed, his eyes sparling with humor, boldly taking pleasure in Danse’s blush. “You’re makin’ me nervous.”

Danse swallowed what pride he had left and took a seat beside the stranger. He paced his drinking, the liquid warm now, stealing bashful glances at the civilian. Every time Danse looked up, the man was staring at him, grinning from under high cheekbones and a sharp, straight, aristocratic nose. God, he was stunning, his eyes shining as they studied Danse’s face, lingering too long on his lips and the fresh scar on his brow.

“You came back out,” Danse mentioned, speaking only to avoid painful silence.

The man shook his head. “I ain’t that guy. You seemed upset. ‘Sides,” he winked. “Gimme twenty. Then we could switch.”

Danse’s face felt as if blood was boiling beneath his skin. He was flabbergasted at such a suggestion. The alluring image that formed in his mind was quickly extinguished. Never again. He’d closed that door.

The man laughed, the sound uninhabited and pleasant. “Damn, friend. You look even finer when you’re blushing. Glad I could help scratch that itch.”

His words did nothing to salve Danse’s flush.

The other man extended his hand. Lest he appear rude, Danse cordially shook it. “I’m John,” he said, rescuing Danse from embarrassment with a confident smile. His gaze dipped down, focusing on the hand he held. “You run into trouble?” he asked.

Danse frowned, not following. John ran a tender thumb over Danse’s split knuckles, smearing the blood. A sensation akin to electricity charged through Danse’s body, something that had nothing to do with pain. He tugged his hand away almost immediately. “Nothing. It was nothing.”

“Sure thing, chief.” John raised his beer. “To secrets and lies amongst strangers.” Although Danse didn’t comply, John clanked his bottle against his.

Sipping his beer, Danse let his gaze wander. A faded poster was adhered to a wall on the opposite side on the alley, of a man happily driving his Corvega down a country road, perhaps leaving his past behind, letting his car carry him far away to someplace new, somewhere he could start over in a place where no one knew him. _A cowardly man,_ Danse figured, _to choose running away._

He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel now. Better? Worse? Disgusted? Ashamed? Freed? If anything, at least the tension had crested and was finally able to heave a deep breath. Whatever method of relief he had needed, he appeared to have found it.

This encounter was meant to have been humiliating and awful, to deter him from any future urges. The reality had been quite different. John hadn’t taken advantage, been crude, or demeaning. He had been considerate, personable and in tune with Danse’s situation. He felt a pang of unexpected attraction that had little to do with lust. It was nice, he decided, just to sit with someone and say nothing, to not feel the constant worry of discovery, of not being the man he was meant to be.

Noticing that his own beer was almost finished, Danse grasped the opportunity to leave, and swigged the rest of his drink. Fearful of pushing the moment too far, Danse set his empty bottle aside and stood. Better to leave on a high note. He gave the man – John – a curt nod. “May the Wastes treat you kindly, friend.”

“Not likely.” The blonde man shook his head, eyes focusing on the bottom of his bottle. “Heading up to Diamond City. Nothing left here. No reason to keep turning down a steady place to live.” He picked at the hem of the flag about his waist, bright crimson stripes sliding between his fingers. “Everything’s dead here. There are flowers up north, and trees – live ones – big as buildings.”

Danse grated himself a wistful smile and looked back at the poster that hung on the other side of the alley. “I’d…like to see that someday.” Pre-war posters and magazine had featured lush landscapes that the people of the barren Capital could only dream of.

The man raised his tapered face to meet Danse’s gaze. “Maybe you will,” he conjectured, looking both contented and calm in a way that Danse envied.

It was a sore moment for Danse, pensive and sad that this precious bubble had to burst. “Safe travels, John from Diamond City.” He turned his back and walked away. The bite mark tingled.

Avoiding going back through the bar, he strode around one side of the building, headed for the snaking metro tunnel that would take him home. The long walk would help clear his head. Time alone was sparse in the Brotherhood.

As he passed beneath a streetlamp powered by an everlasting nuclear charge, he heard footfalls and braced himself.

“Hey! Wait!”

Danse turned as John from the bar caught up to him.

Hazel. Under the streetlight he could discern that John’s eyes were hazel. They had lost some of their bravado and scanned Danse’s own tentatively. “Say I wanted to find you again…how would I do that?”

Glancing around in a panic, Danse searched for someone watching them from the deep nighttime shadows. Finding no one, he glared at John. “You can’t. Don’t try to.”

“So…this was it?”

“It most definitely was.”

Dropping his gaze, John hummed a disappointed sound. “Then…thanks, I guess.”

 “What on Earth for?” Danse was thoroughly mystified.

Looking back up, John timidly ran his knuckles down the length of Danse’s arm. The rings on his fingers felt cool against bare skin, and Danse stifled a shudder. “For letting me take one good memory with me,” said John, his mouth tugging wistfully up in one corner. “I get to remember that the whole wide world isn’t just about suffering.”

Danse wanted to forget. This man wanted to remember. What strange happenstance.

Their fingers barely brushed as John backed away. Staring dumbly, Danse watched him leave and disappear back into the bar.

Danse’s walk back to the Citadel was even lonelier and more confused than anticipated.  


	16. The World on Fire

DANSE

Northwest Commonwealth, MA

November 25th, 2287

What an idiotic reason to fall behind. It would have been convenient to blame one of the others, but no, the delay was his own fault. He had been trained better than this. Were this an official Brotherhood mission, he would surely be written up.

Though he had grabbed up his standard field kit before leaving Sanctuary, he’d neglected to double check the contents. _Curse that man._ He had always inspired bad judgement and recklessness within Danse’s carefully structured routine.

As the night sky shifted from deep indigo to violet, Danse, kneeling in full armor eased a fusion core from the back of a downed sentry bot burning in a field just outside of Concord. The triple-beep warning of his suit’s core depleting had taken him by surprise. His curses at discovering there was no spare had been spectacular. The group had deviated from their path, Danse leading them to find a replacement before it ran out entirely. He would have died a hundred times over if not for his armor. It was a part of him, and damned if he’d leave it behind for raiders to claim and defile.

Though he would have gladly settled for pulling a core from some defunct generator, pure luck had conjured a sentry bot directly in their path, the red light spilling from its eyes giving it away in the darkness. Despite MacCready’s panicked shrieks and some harried scattering, they had succeeded in taking it down – headshots only, avoiding the power source.

“I got it, big guy,” Valentine offered, sliding up beside him and proffering his plastic hand. “Sit tight in your can.”

He wavered, distrust rooted deep. However, his alternative was to exit his suit and rendered himself even more vulnerable. Standing, Danse parted with the core. His suit jerked softly as the nearly-exhausted core was removed. The HUD went dark in his helmet, a tense moment that no solider ever quite adapted to. He rocked forward as the synth slammed the new core in, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. The screen of his visor lit up once more, multicolored text filling the perimeter of his vision.

Danse allotted himself a slow sigh of relief as he clapped his lamplight on and strode back to the road, the others flanking him. He hadn’t dared continue without his armor, exposing himself to Wasteland hazards and the scrutiny of his companions. Safe inside his helmet, he didn’t have to worry about his expression being deciphered. He felt guiltily ignorant to have neglected keeping tabs on his core status. His usual crisp precision had been muddled by stomach-churning apprehension.  

There was no certainty that his group would arrive back in Sanctuary in time. A great many things could have happened since they left – a violent turn, a revolt against the agreement to let Curie try and generate a cure, the crack of a gunshot and the end of a tale.   

Danse wasn’t sure of what to expect. Worse, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to happen after. Should they succeed, his continual residency in Sanctuary would be nothing short of unbearable. Should they fail, stationing himself back on the Prydwen may be his only option, might even take Cade’s recommendation to be relieved of active duty for a while.

As his quartet continued up the highway, Danse tried to remember the last time he’d been taken off an assignment. _Cutler_ , he recalled as his chest constricted. He’d wandered aimlessly around the Citadel for six weeks after Cutler had died. This…this would take longer. 

“Pardon,” Curie piped as they walked, “but are you all noticing a strange odor?”

Danse shined the beam of his lamplight down at her, finding her frowning, her nose wrinkled. His suit filtered out scents. He glanced at Valentine, who shrugged.

“Probably Strong’s cesspit,” MacCready answered from the rear. The tip of the Red Rocket missile could be seen in the distance, its black silhouette touched faintly by the thin slice of pink dawn. “That sorry station attracts way too many Yao Guai’s. Those things stink like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Non, non,” Curie argued, daring to sniff the air. “That is not correct. Yao Guai have a specific musk. It is more like…like decomposition? Like –” She froze in place and lifted her satchel to her nose, sniffing it.

“Ferals!” Danse snapped his rifle to his visor, scanning the roadside through the green glow of his laser scope. He slapped his lamp off, lest it interfere with his weapon’s sights. The far-off whine of a siren pierced the air. He broke into a gallop, trusting the others to follow.

The group rounded the curve in the road to find bedlam erupting at the Red Rocket station. Strong blocked the road, both his bulk and the sledgehammer he brandished delaying a bevy of feral ghouls from rushing past. The mutant smashed rotted skulls to pulp and cracked them in their chests and shoulders, sending grisly body parts flying.   

Taking swift stock, Danse found that his group had separated. Valentine opened a barrage of bullets as fast as he could reload, gallantly marching up to the ghouls as he fired at their backs, giving the mutant some relief. MacCready had evaporated into the dawn. And Curie…where was Curie?

A heavy weight collided with Danse from behind, making him stumble. His forehead knocked against his helmet, causing white lights to briefly steal his vision. A hiss near his ear warned him that the rubber bond that attached his helmet to his suit had punctured. Internal alarms pinged at him as his suit lost pressure. His vision returned, and he caught sight of a gnarled hand swiping at him from behind. One of those bulbous charred ones was clinging to his back, making a play to tear through his suit to get to his throat. The construction of his armor made it impossible to reach back and pull the thing off.

With a roar, Strong broke his blockade, cast his sledge aside, and flung himself at Danse, causing Danse transitory confusion at which way he should shoot. Bracing for impact, Danse ducked, inadvertently giving the mutant clearance to grab at the clinging feral. Danse rattled in his suit as the ghoul was yanked loose. Ripping the charred feral in half, Strong yowled in delight, sending putrefied guts to splash to the earth.

Distracted by the elation of his kill, a crowd of ferals rushed the mutant’s exposed back. Danse watched as they massed Strong, their sharp claws and rotted teeth ripping his flesh. Strong staggered and tossed a few combatants off as he toppled backwards. The discarded ferals thrashed and righted themselves, swiping at the mutant’s upturned stomach,exposing his intestines. Strong’s roars drowned out the ferals’ snarling as they began to feed on him, choking down ragged mouthfuls of mottled green meat.The dying mutant made a pitiful whine, the quality too close to human.

Glancing up the road, Danse found the synth planted in the road without cover, motionless as he – _it_ – Valentine – watched the heap of devouring ferals writhe over the mutant’s body. Enemies distracted, Danse crept past the fueling station to join him. In the waxing daylight, he spotted Curie huddled by one of the stone towers that flanked the Old North Bridge, her head ducked, clutching her satchel. He felt a surge of ire at MacCready’s desertion. _That craven child._

The siren continued wailing as the three of them drew together, leaving the sidetracked ferals behind, and hurried to reach Sanctuary. It was daybreak, gilded light setting the world on fire. The sunbeam emblem on the entry sign seemed to shine in the distance. Turrets flanking the mouth of the suburb chugged defeatedly, having run out of ammunition. Pale figures of the few remaining feral ghouls were sliding between the houses nearest the bridge, attempting the climb the walls. Preston and Piper had managed to get atop the roofs of the two houses at the entry leading in from the bridge, firing down at the wretched monsters.

Danse stepped onto the bridge and leveled his rifle, the scope at his eye. From a safe distance, he neatly picked off the remaining ferals with precise shots, laser beams flashing brightly through his visor. Red dots clustered at the far corners of his HUD – _enemies from behind_. He spun, on the ready. The herd from Red Rocket came spilling over the bridge. He greeted each of them with a shot to the head.

Scanning for remaining threats, Danse rotated in a slow and vigilant circle. His breaths sounded ragged in inside the helmet. He spied Preston waving across the road to Piper. _Any more?_ he discerned. Gun still in her hand, Piper shrugged widely in response. _No idea._

Someone turned off the siren, and his ears rang in the abrupt silence. Faint sounds returned – Dogmeat barking, the rush of the brook, the breeze in the trees.

In the corner of his vision, faded fabric rustled in the street, snapping up Danse’s attention. He whirled his laser rifle at the figure, pinning it in his sights. Danse took a few cautious steps towards it, sidestepping broken planks. The wooden bridge creaked under the weight of his armor.

Danse watched a lone, hunched ghoul in a long red coat shuffle down the street. As the creature snarled at him from across the bridge, the shadow of a tricorn hat made it impossible to tell whether the eyes had shifted from black to gold. The muzzle of Danse’s rifle drooped as he halted mid-bridge.

John looked like a dead man. Danse recalled a particular nightmare from years ago – one that stuck with him – in which the two of them had endured a vertibird crash. John looked just as charred and skeletal as his body had been in the dream. Danse’s tight muscles turned to water.

Late.

Always too late.

Unable to save Cutler, unable to save John.

His heart beat painfully hard, causing blood to rush in his ears. His rifle slipped from his hands, clattering on the wooden boards of the bridge. He slowly raised a hand, as if to calm a rabid dog. “John…” he breathed, knowing that the sound wouldn’t carry.

Danse hadn’t been certain that it was him. Not initially. Then again, in his estimation, all ghouls tended to share the same face. It was that damn flag that had given him away. The steady stream of Calmex delivered to his door had served as a constant reminder – _I’m here. This is me trying._ Pride, infernal pride, had prevented Danse from acknowledging John’s attempt at mollification. Accepting the comments, meant to attack, and the gifts, meant to appease, had both hurt equally.

There was a moment he had forgotten somewhere, a juncture where there had been another possibility, that the atrocities in both their lives might have been spared. Danse believed he knew exactly when that point was, and he felt shame over it.He had done this, ushered in the events that led up to this moment. It had been his responsibility to fix it.

The crack of a gunshot pierced the air. John’s head whipped to the side, spinning him, knocking him sideways to crumble in the road.

Danse felt his blood drain. A jagged, “ _No_!” tore at his throat.

A cold sensation crept down his limbs and he caught himself sprinting. He released the airlocks on his suit mid-stride, pausing to swing out of the armor, spin and keep running. Leaving the bridge behind, the soles of his bodysuit struck heavily on the asphalt, sending jolts up his shins. Rushing into Sanctuary, he reached the fallen ghoul’s side and threw himself to one knee, heartbeat pumping ice through his veins. He grabbed John by the shoulder and rolled him, bracing for blood and brains, stomach knotted.

A syringe poked from the meaty part of John’s wrinkled neck, its barrel empty. Danse grasped it and pulled, a thin metal shaft sliding out. Dumbstruck, he glanced over his shoulder. Everything had slowed down. He caught Curie rushing towards him, shouting. MacCready had burst from concealment on the opposite side of the river, Minuteman statue at his back. The young man scrambled over the bridge, duster sailing out behind him, blue eyes wide, _Oh Shit, Just in Case_ gripped in one hand, muzzle down and faintly trailing white smoke. Danse’s suit stood abandoned on the bridge, sunlight spilling over the plating in shimmering waves. Beside it, Valentine stood studying him, a thumb pushing the brim of his hat up.

Danse rocked backwards, seating himself heavily. Adrenaline pooled with nowhere to go. In shock, he put his head in his hands. The world was silent. He couldn’t hear. He felt like he was falling, nauseous. Dozens of memories collided, each one fighting to remind him of what he’d sacrificed to keep the stripes and sword of his paladin insignia.

Swallowing tears, nerves on edge, he clasped hands over his face and hung his head.


	17. The Long Walk

JOHN

Sanctuary Hills, MA

November 25th, 2287

Light shifted, growing bright before retracting. Broken images sifted through his mind, a jumble of people and places from different points in time. He reached for these visions like a lifeline. As soon as he would grasp one, it would crumble to nothing, leaving him alone in the abyss that held him hostage. Sound was muddy; an inaudible voice cut in and out, the familiar timbre pulling him from his stupor before he would fade away again. Sometimes that voice spoke to a woman, and they would trade sentences, with her saying much more than him.

When John was finally able to lift heavy eyelids, it was late afternoon. Sunlight spilled through a gap in the western wall where support beams were visible, leaving a rectangular rift to outside. He was in his own bed in his own house – he recognized the poster of a kitten chewing a tiny bomb hanging in a corner of the room. Wallpaper that had once been baby blue or light mint peeled away from the ceiling, hanging down in tattered swaths. Exposed lumber crisscrossed overhead, evidence of Sturges’ patchwork, as John had never favored labor. Air gently tickled his forehead; he was without his hat. He felt oddly naked without it.

A tilt of the mattress beneath him made him aware that someone was sitting at the edge of the bed. The slight jostle snapped John back into his body. His dry throat swallowed, and he blinked at the figure in profile.

Lost in deliberation, Danse was had his hands on his knees, spine slightly curved and his head inclined. He was still dressed in that noxious orange suit that the Brotherhood insisted on, hood included. His chest was heaving as he sat there, lips moving in dialogue that John couldn’t focus on. Danse’s face was scarred more deeply than he remembered, pockmarked, grooved and damaged by sun. John caught himself and recalled that his own visage was in far worse shape.

The deep, grounding rumble of Danse’s voice sharpened and John was finally able to make out his softly spoken words.

“– wouldn’t be honest. I had begun to fear that leaving that Prydwen was a mistake. Everything that I have experienced has felt like an impact, a deliberate attempt to scratch wounds in my beliefs.”

 John’s chest constricted hearing Danse – _his_ Danse – fight to shove each syllable through palpable hurt.

The solider took a rattled breath and continued. “And seeing you…seeing you look like this…knowing that you were unable to cope, and the drastic action that you resorted to in order to escape the life you found yourself in...” He paused, running a tongue over chapped lips. His gloved fingertips tightened on his knees. “I worry that all of this is my fault. That I gave you no choice.” Danse gave a hearty exhale, and squeezed his eyes closed. “I’ve been a wretched man, a liar and a coward. Did I do this to you? Was it all because of me?” A single tear traced the vertical scar under his eye.

Oh. So that explained Danse’s sudden interest in John’s wellbeing. _How apt_ , the snide thought infringed. _Still seeking validation after all these years, aren’t’ you?_ Danse was still so desperate for praise, for the reassurance that he was indeed a virtuous man with all the right answers. It was important that John had been the one to have fallen, not him. That wouldn’t have befitted a man of his position.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” John grumbled, struggling to sit up. His vision swam as he moved. “Wasn’t all you.” Plenty of people had conspired to ruin John McDonough.

Shining brown eyes met his, the heavy brows lifted in surprise, and the paladin made a croaking sound. That lone teardrop disappeared into his stubble. A current crackled to life between them, made John’s hardened skin prickle. The sounds of their breathing stole all his attention. John didn’t move, didn’t dare, black eyes locked with Danse’s. Frustration fell away, replaced by a heady need to connect, to reassure. Heat rushed down his arms. He melted just a fraction, muscles relaxing. “Dan…” he whispered in his rough voice.

Danse’s expression tightened. He hissed a disgusted sound through his teeth as the moment shattered. With standard displeasure on his face, Danse hauled himself up from the bed and slunk from the room.

A choke lodged in John’s throat. He heard voices in the hallway, the paladin giving a terse report, a lilting French accent answering.

John drew his legs to his chest, curling upon himself, palms pressed to his brow. A pain swelled so poignant that he couldn’t see straight. He ground his teeth and felt foolish. This sting was familiar. Same old waltz. An ocean had sprung up between them, an obstacle impossible to cross.

His eyes stung, his face hot. A trickling sensation prickled down his cheeks, accompanied by the slight, accustomed burn of radiation. Tentatively, he touched the space between his eye and nasal cavity, drawing two fingers away from his face. The tips shone wet and bright in the afternoon sun, greenish in tint, as if luminous jade light coated his fingers. He stared at them, dumbstruck. “The hell…?”

Curie poked her head into his room, and John looked to her, stunned. He took a jagged gasp. “Am I dying?” he asked her, his heartbeat seeming to wobble.

“Oh, ce n’est. No,” Curie sweetly assured as she entered, placing a carton of dirty water on a three-legged bedside table. Her short hair was mussed and purple smudges darkened the skin under her eyes, evidence of a hard day. Taking a seat on his bed, she took his hand and smiled. “They are just tears.” She reached to touch his face.

He drew away sharply. “No. I can’t,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Ghouls don’t do that. And this” – he held his fingers up, the substance that had rolled from his eyes incandescent and gleaming – “this ain’t even close to normal!”

With a reassuring smile – _Damn, her bedside manner’s in top form_ – Curie folded her hands into her lap. “I had predicted as much. I would venture to say that you are experiencing long-dormant side effects of the drug you had taken – the one that caused your metamorphosis.” Her smile wavered, disappointment creeping into her eyes. “It is a pity that I will never be able to study such an astonishing substance.”

John’s mouth twitched into a frown and he reached for the carton of water, thinking as he gulped it. He wiped his fingers against his coat, trying to rid evidence of his peculiarity.

That damn drug. He’d given Curie as much information as he could when she’d gone around and questioned the medical history of everyone in Sanctuary. Having promised confidentiality, she’d eagerly absorbed the few details he’d had to offer. Truthfully, it hadn’t been much. He had little information beyond what it cost, who provided it, and the rapture and horror it had unleashed on his mind before turning his body to leather. At the time, it had seemed like a romantic solution, Shakespearian even, to have found that last drop of poison. Now, the complications were quickly outweighing the benefits.

So much for immortality.

“How am I still here?” he asked. The last few days blurred together. “I should be ripping out throats and slashing guts open.”

“You may thank Monsieur MacCready for that. He built a syringer rifle to my specifications. It delivered a dose of a preventive substance directly to your bloodstream.”

John huffed in appreciation. Sometimes a dirty jewel would roll into Goodneighbor. Good ol’ MacCready. John had liked him on the spot and had made one hell of a gamble by sheltering the kid from his former Gunner associates. That risk that had paid off again and again. He owed that merc his life several times over now, as did plenty of others.

“Look, I’m grateful for what you did for me,” he acknowledged, setting the empty carton aside. He hesitated before adding, “What…what all of you did. But much as I love gettin’ jabbed with needles – and, well, _I do_ – I’m gonna need some answers. If you found some kinda solution for ghouls, we gotta share it.”

“Well, you see, you are not just a ghoul, cher monsieur,” Curie said in a delicate yet pointed manner. “I dare to say that you are becoming something very different.”

He felt light-headed. Glancing down, he noticed that he had twirled the tail of his flag-sash around his fingers, an old habit he thought he’d kicked. “Becoming…what?” he asked as he looked up, voice smaller than he’d expected. “What’s happening to me?”

It was her turn to shake her head. “I do not know. Something very new. Since your initial transformation to a ghoul was expedited, I would hypothesize that you may still be evolving.”

 _Evolving._ His stomach did a flip.

Her smile renewed, eyes widening with enthusiasm. “What a fantastic adventure,” she spouted, alight with excitement. “I am excited by this. Are you not?”

No, he wasn’t. Not at all. He felt chilled.

“The substance I have developed,” she said, “it is likely that I will have to adapt the amount in the future.” 

“ _In the future_ ,” he repeated, with a sinking feeling. “As in, that wasn’t it? There’s more?”

“Oui. To delay a feral turn, you will need to take dosages quite frequently. The substance mostly consists of blood-thinners and anti-rad serums, slowing the build-up of necrosis and radiation in the affected areas of your brain. I would strongly suggest that you avoid injury, as the resulting blood loss could be substantial.”

John took a moment to let her words sink in. “You said _delay_ , not _stop_. This…this ain’t really a cure, is it?”

“I…no,” she disclosed, averting her eyes, becoming shy and hesitant. “But, it shall lengthen the quality of your life. Granted, that is, that you remain on the treatment indefinitely.”

Slumping against the bedframe, he muttered, “Dang…Can’t you lie? Just a little?”

“Deceit would not be in your best interest.”

So that was it, then. He was on the long walk to inevitability, unable to change course, only able to alter the pace. If he listened close enough, he was certain he could hear the second hand of a pocket watch ticking by, a timer ticking down to zero.

He took a breath and held it, wandering gaze falling upon burn marks in the faded wallpaper by the doorway. Weeks earlier, locked in the reverie of a nice high on Med-X, he’d created a pattern using the smoldering tip of a cigarette. It didn’t look like much of anything, just a few dots around the rough outline of a square. No one would know that he’d recreated the positions held by his allies during the Battle for Goodneighbor. How many lifetimes ago was that? He formed a fist. No one should have as many chances as he got. That wasn’t fair.

“What about other ghouls?” he wondered. Curie looked up and cocked her head. “This treatment of yours – it can be used to help other folks, right? Other ghouls nearing the edge?”

“Oh. I…well. No, monsieur.” She timidly looked up at him through her lashes. “You are different from the others. Your method of transforming…you did not come to be in the same manner of other ghouls. Physiologically speaking, you carry many key modifications. You are, how you say, quite special.”

 _Special,_ she’d said _. Different._

_Alone._

Perhaps sensing his turmoil, Curie patted him on the knee. “Fret not, monsieur. You will have assistance and excellent care. However, I would suggest that you stay in Sanctuary for the foreseeable future. You will need constant monitoring and –”

“Stay here,” he parroted, cutting her off. He knocked her hand from his knee. “Stay here and what – grow tatos?” Anger swelled, propelling him to action. He lurched to his feet and spun from side to side, searching for his hat. “You might’a figured my infirmity, but you must know dick about me.” There – his tricorn had been placed on a far side table. He strode to it, snatched it up and jammed it on. Leveling a finger at her, he proclaimed, “I didn’t leave Goodneighbor, didn’t build myself a brand just to quietly die in some pre-war picture book community. With the Institute and the Railroad crawling all over the Commonwealth, and now the goddamn Brotherhood involved, the top’s about to blow off’a this kettle. I said I’m gonna be in the thick of it and you bet your ass I will be.”

Blinking, Curie stared at him with her mouth open. “But…monsieur…you will run the risk of assailing your allies! Should the worst happen –”  

“Then you better make your solution mobile.” He couldn’t remain in Sanctuary, wouldn’t be able to stand it, not with Nate’s house of cards being built and not with Danse down the road. No way in hell. “Gimme a supply for the road. I got enough people in enough places that know their way around a chemistry station. All I need is a recipe. I’m good with a syringe, trust me.”

Curie stared dejectedly down at her shoes, as if he’d taken her last sweet roll away. “I…that would be against medicine advice.”

“Most of what I do is.”

With a light sigh, she stood. “Let me assemble a list. Some of the elements will be hard to come by.”

“I’ve got people for that. Perks of celebrity.”

With a firm nod, Curie excused herself.

As she went, John felt kind of bad for being an asshole. But only kind of.

Too long without a cigarette, he patted his empty pockets before dropping to his knees and fumbling through the stash he kept in a suitcase under the bed. Bottles, boxes and inhalers were brushed aside until his fingers closed around a practically crushed pack of smokes. He shook one out, lit it, and sat back, letting the nicotine settle his hostility. 

Fuck. He was glad he hadn’t mentioned _hearing_ the ferals that had swarmed the settlement. They’d inspired a sickening sensation of pitiful empathy, caught in a loop of replaying their final thoughts forever. And that unified voice – what had that come from? Not from any individual ghoul, John was certain. It had almost come up from the earth itself, funneling straight into his mind. Goddamn, if that wasn’t the trippiest thing to ever happen to him.

There hadn’t been a Glowing One present for the attack, strange for numbers that high. A glower usually functioned as a sheep dog, keeping order amongst the wilier ferals. Why attack now, when Sanctuary had been occupied for months? Drawn by the stink of humanity and the mutant’s gas station? What had changed?

The knowledge dropped straight through him, falling into John’s stomach like a rock.

Him. They’d come for him, to slay his captives and set him loose. No wonder there hadn’t been a Glowing One. This group had already chosen their leader.

John’s gut churned, and his flicked his cigarette away. His body shook with dry heaves until the sun set, letting him hide in the darkened house until he could escape Sanctuary unnoticed. 


	18. On the Midnight Radio

JOHN

Diamond City, MA

October 3rd, 2277

His brother had emphasized that if John kept insisting on rolling around in the dirt like an animal, he should at least have a decent pen. Tales of John’s long travels throughout the Wastes hadn’t set well with Guy; he considered a life of mere survival and vice to be beneath their breeding. As means to curb John’s wanderlust, Guy had granted him an envious residence in the center of town, an expansive multi-leveled unit located in the heart of the Diamond City marketplace. Too rich for John’s liking but he never did learn how to say _no_.

True to his word, Guy had housed the articles and essays John had spent the last several years writing from the road. Piles of yellowed papers now carpeted the first floor of the home, dumped there without much regard for order. Never much of a homemaker, John had stocked his new house with only the necessities – his papers, enough canned items to sustain himself, a crate full of warm beer bottles, cartons of cigarettes, and a bulky rucksack bulging with chems.

All the furniture had been left by previous tenants, either by one family or collected over time. A flat-cushioned couch lay in a dark corner of the lowest level beside a rickety bookcase. Various boxes and pallets were stacked by both entry doors, one leading to a sitting room, the other to a small workshop area. Rows of string lights had been hung here and there, the uncovered bulbs shining brightly, emitting a slightly festive vibe that John appreciated. The second floor housed a simple bed and a tarnished dresser with all the drawers still included. The third level was bare and tiny, with a ladder that led up to a roof with an expansive patio. It was on that third level that John hid his chems. On the rare chance that his brother might visit him, the third floor was safe, the double set of stairs leading up to it a deterrent for his portly sibling. 

Perched atop that final level, John sat with bare feet dangling off the edge. A length of surgical tubing bit into his bicep, arm numb below the elbow, as he slid a needle out of a blue vein. He set an empty flask of Slasher aside, bevel weeping a final drop, and pulled the tie on the tubing free. As he tugged the sleeve of his billowy white shirt back down, renewed blood flow made the fingertips on his numb arm prickle. He wiggled his fingers to alleviate the sensation.

Using a one of his rings as a bottle-opener, he popped the cap on his third beer as the first few pulses of the drug took effect.“ _John_.” He could hear West’s mechanical voice, clear as the day he had spoken. John takes a hefty swig to drown the voice out. “ _John, stop. Additional action is not required.”_ It hadn’t mattered that his hand had been shaking so badly that it jangled the screws in the gun; the distance was only two feet. The shot landed exactly where it had been necessary. Bang. Another dead ghoul in the Wasteland. And the end of a long partnership.

His heartbeat increased as the full effects of the chem cocktail crashed into his body. He found himself wringing a tail from his flag-sash in one hand, fingers twisting the fabric taut, making the threads strain. The tight weave had begun to loosen; if he wasn’t careful, the edges would soon fray. Alone for the first time in his life without a mentor or defender, John felt as if he were slowly coming apart as well. 

Caught in a bubble, he sipped his beer and picked at the stitching in the flag, surrendering to the blissful cushioning of chems. He finished his drink and placed the empty bottle beside the others. Releasing the flag, he reached into one of his deep pockets, fished, and pulled out a single piece of After Burner. He thoughtfully unwrapped it, popped the piece into his mouth and chewed. The old gum softened instantly, its euphoric influence making the pounding of his heartbeat flush in pleasurable throbs. He let his head roll back as he drowned in sensation, the combination of chems and alcohol pushing thought from his mind.

At ground level, a tentative knock rattled the aluminum door to the workshop and created harsh pulsations that conflicted with his high. John’s head snapped forward. It was past the witching hour and even the constant bustle of the market would have died down by now. “What?” he called, cracking his gum. No answer. He leaned forward and shouted louder. _“Yeah, what?”_

The handle twisted, and a skinny teenager poked his head in. His shoulders were hunched up to his neck, and his hair, in dire need of a trim, stuck out at all angles. Travis Miles had recently inherited the local radio station, its bandwidth spanning the entire region. The pressure of being the voice of a nation had taken what little poise Travis had once held and smashed it to pieces. “Uhhh, hey. There’s…well, there’s this…um...it’s…”

The room seemed to gently sway from side to side. John popped a bubble with his gum, his tolerance of the interruption growing thin. “Out with it, pal.”

“There’s a…. well, there’s a transmission. For you. Uhh, on the radio, I mean.” Travis fidgeted, scratching behind one ear. “I guess, uh, _transmission_ gave it away but, uhh…They’re waiting for you. I mean, on the...on the thing.”

John cocked his head, still chewing. There were few who knew where he was. Fewer, he suspected, that cared. All his friends were dead. He and grief were old friends, though. John knew how to control it, how to cage it with chems, how to crank back the fires and keep it at a simmer.

He hastily slipped his left greave over his shirtsleeve and pulled the ties tight with his teeth. As he stood and hopped down the stairs, a soporific warmth clung to his skin. Longing to curl into a ball in his bed, he almost told Travis to shove it, but the prospect of a midnight caller was more enticing. 

Stepping into the combat boots by his bedside, he crisscrossed the laces around the ankles of his cargo pants and secured them. His baggy clothes only emphasized how thin he was where at cinched at the waist, wrists and ankles. He wore no armor other than leather armguards that covered his forearms. A knife was sheathed in the left one.

“Lead the way, kid,” he said to Travis as he reached the doorway. Sputtering, Travis shuffled back and ducked away, mumbling directions as he wove around one side of the marketplace. John followed on his heels.

Diamond City at night, with its glowing neon signs and ambient noises, pulsed with life. Even after hours, the city never quite emptied, a smattering of traders, derelicts, and guards forming obstacles along the twisting path Travis took up rattling metal steps and behind shuttered businesses, weaving his way out to mid-field. Cushioned by chems, John floated behind the teenager, a shadow – or a ghost – barely tied to this plane, each step propelling him forward along a dreamscape. Voices behind tin doors echoed, indistinct chatter throbbing in John’s ears. The moon over the Wall – or was it a floodlight? – spilled liquid silver light over puddles in the field, making them reflect like mirrors, portals to other worlds. John was half-tempted to far into them, eager to see what awaited on the other side.

Though sizable by Wasteland standards, John had found Diamond City to be predictably segregated. It was no small insult that Guy had placed John in a house on the field. Home to the working class, or to those whose ancestors had spent a hard life on the road after the bombs fell, the field was the heartbeat of the city, a base of trade, shanties, simple pleasures, and agriculture. Transients took temporary refuge on bedrolls hidden on the backsides of buildings, carefully obscured from the elevated units situated in the upper stands, lest the wealthier residents spot them.

Guy’s perpetual insistence on John finding a position ‘ _worthy of his upbringing’_ was unrelenting, pushing John into the business sector, contending that most people in the fields couldn’t count as high as they had fingers, let alone read their own bookkeeping. John’s placement in the marketplace home hadn’t been on accident. Acting as Diamond City’s Market’s accountant would be a respectable career, one, Guy assured, that would assure John his own apartment in the stands someday.

John spared a glance at the elevated houses in the stands, their balconies vacant at this hour. The cream might rise, but so did the stink of brahmin shit. Every city or roadside shelter John ever visited worked the same way – whether it was reaching for the stars or literally separating themselves from the muck in the road below, those with the means to do so took prideful care to put themselves higher than the rest of their set, kings on their thrones, scowling down at the peasants. Damned if he’d ever be one of the elite glancing over his balcony, lording over those below.   

Just past second base, a metal trailer sat on struts at the edge of a lake containing the city’s water supply. As Travis made his way up the steps, John spat his gum into a scraggly nearby bush. Travis swung the door open and they stepped inside the cramped camper.

“How am I working this?” John asked. A wall of broadcast equipment spanned out before him.

“Its’s pretty simple. Um, I guess. Maybe?” Travis drifted to the left and John followed. On a desk in the corner sat a receiver attached with frayed wires to the rest of the equipment. An ergonomic chair on wheels sat in front of the desk. Travis poked at a button by the receiver’s microphone. “On. Off,” he demonstrated.

John nodded. “Got it.” He took a seat in the chair.

Travis twisted a knob and slunk away. A clash of static made John cringe, the noise fighting its way through his chem-haze to drill straight through his skull.

Someone on the other end cleared their throat. Over a line laced with static, a deep, smooth voice asked, “John?”

Rubbing at his temple, John rested an elbow against the desk. “Yeah?” he spoke into the microphone. “What’s it to you?”

The static dispelled, leaving the line clear. “Do you remember me?” the caller asked.

John sat upright in the chair. That voice with its rumbling bass grabbed him tight, ripping him from his trance, giving his body weight again. A rush of recollection, of rough hands, authority, and intense, dark eyes made his body pulse in time with his heart.

Fucking some anonymous man behind a bar had been the filthiest moment of his questionable life. He’d gone back door a time or two with female callers, so he hadn’t been completely clueless. Apparently, he’d done all right. His casual experiment had sought him out. What was the guy’s name? Had he even given it?

“John?” the voice asked again, a thread of uncertainty present this time.

John silently and emphatically waved Travis out. The boy blinked and rushed to scurry out of the trailer, banging his knee on the way out. The door swung closed behind him with a click.

“I’m here,” John answered, placing palms on the desk as he turning to face the receiver.

“Is this channel secure?”

“Uh, sure,” John responded with a careless shrug. In truth, he had no idea. But the Enclave radio station had been silent for months, mutants were too stupid, and raiders didn’t have the ingenuity to care.

A tentative pause on the other end of the line made John lean forward. His stomach gave a queer jump of anticipation.

“At the risk of sounding trite,” the voice continued, “I find myself infatuated by you. I…if you’re willing… I’d like to see you again.”

With lightning speed, John switched the radio off and pulled away as if the equipment would bite. The trailer seemed to sway and vibrate. He hadn’t intended for anything else to come from that night Alexandria, hadn’t thought of it for more than a few moments since. Standing, he rubbed his palms together, generating friction, heat and nervous energy. Shocked that anyone would bother to search for him, John was at a loss for words. Feeling vaguely out-of-body, he shook his head in a meager attempt to clear it and wished he was sober. He paced in a quick circle, unsure of what to do.

He turned the radio back on.

“– you still there?” the man was asking in a worried voice.

“Yeah,” John croaked, resuming his seat. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah.”

“A regional map has come into my possession. I…saw Diamond City listed.” A shaky breath. “I immediately thought of you.”

John winced at the lingering sentimentality in the man’s voice. Absentmindedly, his fingers traced grooves marring the desktop.

Though the man on the other end of the line didn’t say it, John knew it was Enclave records that he’d come across. The man had been a solider, and hoarding documentation was what the Brotherhood lived for. If the Brotherhood of Steel was earmarking possible places of interest, that might mean a residency one day. And, as John had been led to believe, the Commonwealth was coming up short in terms of militia.

“Can you meet me?” the voice inquired. The tone had shifted, a little quieter, a little more cautious.

John paused. Those sad dark eyes filled his memory. “Yes.”

A breathy exhale. “Yes?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation. “Up here?”

“If I can find a safe location.”

John wasn’t sure if anyplace was ever entirely safe. With a gentle nudge from the chems, he offered, “Pre-war bunkers are dotted all over the place. Vaults and islands, too. Take your pick.”

“There’s an old listening post nearly due north of you. Pre-war. Can you get there?”

“Pretty sure,” John said, spinning cheerfully in the chair. Being resourceful was a survival trait he’d mastered.

“On the twentieth? I…look forward to seeing you again.”

“Okay.” A small smile flitted over his face, competing with a stunned feeling of surprise. One hour ago, he’d been planning to wallow indefinitely. Now, he had a tryst with that Capital solider scheduled. “I mean…yeah. Um…me, too.”   

There was a pop over the line and static claimed the channel. John leaned heavily back in the chair, its springs squeaking.

Well. It looked like he was going to leave the drudgery of Diamond City behind, if only for a short period of time. He could use the distraction, giving him a reprieve to escape the scathing disapproval of his brother. By taking the stranger up on his offer, John could run away and delay any commitment owed. John was already grateful and found himself giddy with excitement.

He stood and went to open the trailer door. As it cracked, cool night air brushed his face, ruffling his long hair. Outside, the stars beyond the throw of the floodlights looked particularly brilliant. John felt renewed and alive.

He was going to have an adventure.


End file.
